Luck of the Gods
by ChampionTheWonderSnail
Summary: Sequel to Remembering Aunt Mildred - One would think the life of an individual with the soul of an old god would be easy. Or...not when you've grown up uncomfortably perched between the Chantry and the Circle and Grandma is a dragon. Literally.
1. Dark Waters

A/N: Special thanks to Reyavie for her feedback and encouragement, and to Suilven who inspired a title for this story after a random conversation (!). Thanks also to the wonderful folk on the Cheeky Monkeys of Dragon Age forum who inspire me in general. They're an enormously great bunch of talented, amazing bananas if you've ever wondered who they are.

Also, as this story is a sequel to 'Remembering Aunt Mildred' it contains spoilers (as if the story description wasn't bad enough...).

-oo-

**Chapter 1 – Dark Waters**

It was a strange thing; that the number of years he'd spent in this place be represented by so little: a few faded robes too patched and ragged to pass on to another, boots worn so thin he could feel the stones under his feet when he walked, a modest pile of study notes so badly written even he couldn't read them any more. There was little else; proof that he'd been an occupant of these stone halls for nearly a decade and a half. He supposed relatively speaking, that was not as long as say…the First Enchanter or even some of the old Templars had been here. _Fade, _some of those Templars had been here as long as the furniture.

_Listen to me…One would think I was leaving for good. _And that wasn't true. A mage carried the Circle wherever they went, branded into their soul the moment they stepped into Kester's boat. Or at least; these days when they were herded onto the _Kester's Pride, _seeing as the old boatman had retired years ago, selling up his business to a dwarven family who'd kept the name as a 'brand'. Kester had been ferrying mages, Templars and potential apprentices across Lake Calenhad for decades. He was practically part of the landscape; as part of the tales of the Circle and Tower as the _Spoiled Princess _had been about food poisoning and waking up with all one's clothes missing and little else but the taste of bad ale in one's mouth. There was a confidence; a solidity about the name of Kester (which admittedly, was ironic given the leakiness of _Kester's Pride _in general and the number of times sodden dwarves and half-drowned apprentices needed to be hauled from the lake).

Well, regardless who would be taking him this time, Kester had seen him safely across the lake all those years ago. The old codger would be missed on the journey back.

He heard a soft shuffle behind him and turned to an unexpected visitor.

"Maker's butt cheeks!" he exclaimed, his formerly sombre expression overtaken by a wide grin. "Father…when did you…?"

The two men embraced; backs were thumped enthusiastically and in the case of the younger of the two men; a wary glance thrown towards the open doorway.

"She's not with me, if you're wondering," his father commented quietly, interpreting the look correctly.

"I wasn't…actually."

"Hm," his father nodded all too knowingly.

"Are you here to…?" A prickle of anxiety overcame him. He frowned. It had been years since his father had served the Chantry in a more official capacity, but the Chantry didn't release their servants willingly. Once a Templar, always a Templar, so his uncle was fond of reminding him. A soldier of Andraste did not always bear the symbol of her burning sword or the Maker's sun. Sometimes, they wore ordinary clothes…Surely he hadn't been recalled to serve?

"No," his father told him wryly. "In case you're wondering. This is a purely social visit. I'm not here to make sure you don't take the best silver with you nor spy on you to make sure you're really _not _a blood mage before being unleashed upon the unsuspecting public. Besides," was the additional disclaimer, "I promised the Knight Commander I'd look in if I was passing through."

This time, it was the younger man who cast a sharp look at the other. "So it's a coincidence that you're here to see me? This wasn't intentional?"

"Come now, Greagoir," his father's smile did not diminish. If anything those dark eyes twinkled more brightly. "No need to be so sour. The world might not revolve around you, but if a father chooses to say hello to his grown son living on the other side of the country when given the opportunity to do so is that such a bad thing?"

The young mage took his own opportunity to take advantage of the fact that today he was out of his usual Circle garb and in more practical travelling clothes by balling up his fists and shoving them aggressively into his pockets. Circle robes did not – as a rule – contain such convenient tools of expression. He glared through the unruly fringe of dark blonde hair at his father; who chuckled and patted him on one of his hunched shoulders.

"Have you said your farewell to your uncle? Should I pass on a message for you?" his father asked.

"No thanks," was the short answer. Did Greagoir _need_ to be reminded how his family's background had forced him to balance precariously between the Chantry and the Circle? _Maker_, it was bad enough knowing…what he did. He couldn't help showing signs of magic. There was nothing to prevent that. Nor could he help being sent away to Kinloch Hall to study that magic. As for trying to convince the people he'd grown up with that he wasn't some kind of magical genius nor a Chantry sympathiser…? Well, needless to say he'd made few friends here over the years.

And that included Pickles the resident mouser.

He heard his father sigh and immediately felt guilty for dredging up all the old resentment he'd felt as a teenager here. Especially since time had more or less blunted his resentment towards his parents to little more than a niggle. And not since he'd been told…what he had been told. _Huh…after all this time, I still can't bring myself to even _think _it._

"So…" he began with a brightness he did not feel. "How's the weather outside? Warm? Raining kittens and qunaris?"

"It's summer, son."

"Oh. No kittens and qunaris then?"

"Only if you wish very, very hard for them. Look…son…"

"I don't want to talk about her…" he said quickly, adding because he felt the need: "…father."

Stepping away, Greagoir proceeded with purposeful steps towards the travel pack perched on his bed. Throwing it over a shoulder he made his way to the door. He knew he didn't have a right to resent this man. Maker knew the old man had had no say in the matter but he wasn't in the mood to share his feelings about the subject right now…Or lack of them. Anyway…he had things to do. People to meet. Busy, busy, busy…This was his very first assignment since his internment here…best get on with it. Why put it off and all of that? _No time to chat, Da…You know how it is…_Or well, Greagoir added to himself, _didn't. _His father had always been, well…_his father. _The man who taught him which end of a sword was safe to hold. The one who sat with him during thunderstorms when he'd been a young child; taught him an appreciation of lightning that the talented mage in their household could not. Always ready for a story…a kind word. _He deserves better_.

"Son…"

Resting his hand on the door frame Greagoir paused, mulling over the worried tone in the other man's voice. Balling up his fist again, he lightly tapped the wood with his knuckles. "So I suppose I'll see you around?" he said quietly. Meeting the other man eye to eye finally, he added. "Thank you for everything…Captain Tremayne…" and felt a complete cad for it.

-oo-

"Nervous?"

Greagoir looked up to a pair of bright blue eyes set above the very distinctive nose of his companion. Enchanter Connor extended a booted foot and nudged at the younger man's leg. "The big wide world outside isn't so bad you know."

"And that would be because…I've never seen the outside world before…?" Greagoir said sourly. Andraste's arse…he had arrived at the Tower when he was _seven_. He did actually remember that the sky was green and the grass was purple…going so far as to sarcastically inform the Enchanter this very thing. It earned him – unsurprisingly - a substantially sharper kick this time.

"You know what I mean," Connor rolled his eyes at him.

"Why?" Greagoir asked. "Do I look nervous?"

Connor grinned. "Actually no." The older mage's gaze raked over Greagoir's non-standard Circle wear. "To be honest you look like you're about to do a runner."

This statement inevitably drew the attention of the two attendant Templars. "That would be inadvisable, mage," one of them rumbled behind the upended metal flower pot of his helm, while the other simply gave the impression a _glare _was involved. Greagoir levelled a pointed look at the Templar who'd spoken.

"You do realise that was a joke, right? _Humour…_a piss-take, having a bit of a…" His sardonic explanation came to an abrupt halt when the Templar took a step forward, grabbed a fist full of Greagoir's tunic and lifted the young mage to his feet.

"I would also caution you against _making fun,_" the Templar growled. Behind the armoured, angry wall, Enchanter Connor snorted.

"And _you_ realise Templar, whom you are talking _to_?" Enchanter Connor's voice turned icy. "Who we _both _are?"

"Won't make any difference who either of you are when you're both lying at the bottom of this lake," the Templar snapped back, releasing the young mage all the same and returning to his post by the boatman. He cast one last, warning look at both mages before turning his back resolutely on them both. Straightening his clothes, Greagoir made a face at his fellow mage. All that was returned in acknowledgement was a cool lift of the young man's noble chin so Greagoir returned his attention to his mindless contemplation of the chilly, dark waters of Lake Calenhad.

To be quite honest, he didn't like Enchanter Connor. When he'd heard he was being sent to Denerim with the Enchanter, Greagoir had groaned in dismay. A few years older than himself, the Enchanter had a reputation for being mercurial at best; warm and jovial one moment, cold and arrogant the next. Greagoir wasn't too sure whether this was due to Connor's ties to one of the most established and esteemed noble lines in Ferelden and therefore felt entitled to be a jittery sod or because that background clashed most uncomfortably with the fact he was a mage. Greagoir had met Connor's parents on a couple of occasions when they had visited the Tower. Though he couldn't quite recall the Arl as being more than just another elderly, grey-haired man, the Arlessa in comparison chilled him. A silent, stone-faced woman, she would have been quite beautiful in her day he supposed. As a mother however…? Greagoir knew the people who had raised him were not his real parents, yet those he called 'mother and father' had shown him more warmth and love than Connor's biological parents ever appeared to deem necessary.

So…perhaps being a pompous, pretentious, changeable prat was an inherited trait…?

At the thought of his 'parents' Greagoir sighed and leaned his chin on his knees. He knew he could have stayed a little longer, chosen to speak a little more with the Captain. Instead he'd run and as a result had to kick his heels for half an hour while waiting for the Enchanter to turn up. Could have. Should have. He was just…just digesting. _Yes, that's it. _Still coming to terms with what he was; _who _he was. He wasn't even sure how he should react to all of that. When he'd been told he'd been surprised but…not angry. Just…just…for months...Years.

_Ah, bugger it, who am I kidding? I have no idea. _Had there been a precedent for someone – some_thing _– like him? _I _am_ the precedent. Just little old me against the world and all of that…_

_How many people with the soul of an old god are out there? I mean, really?_ _And I'm not…weird or anything. _Or at the least, no one had actually _told _him to his face that he was a freak. Yet. He _felt_ normal. He'd had a normal upbringing (for a mage anyway). It wasn't as if he was particularly good at magic though. If anything he was…average. He'd never excelled in any particular school of magic; had always had to work pretty hard to master even basic spells. The fact that he was nothing like his bookworm Amell mother probably didn't help either nor was his preference for a sword over a fireball; a dagger instead of a Misdirection Hex. He knew how to do all of the required magical stuff; certainly well enough to pass his exams and get through his Harrowing just fine…just not a shining beacon of magehood. It was…Looking at the 'package' as a whole, all Greagoir saw was average everything; an average mage with average height, nondescript brownish hair, unforgettable brown eyes. Even his voice was sort of…droning. _Oh Maker, I've just bored myself to tears and we haven't even reached the shore yet…_

Which was strange, now that he came to think of it.

Greagoir peered across the waters beyond the prow of the sailing barge. He was quite sure he'd had a view of the hills behind the Spoiled Princess not that long ago. Now, all that was visible were the red crags of the shoreline, rapidly being consumed by low fog and the vague outline of forest behind that. He glanced at the boatman; a stout dwarf by the name of Arngrim. The two templars Sers Mauris and Ilrik stood on either side, looking out over the waters…still and silent as Templars were wont to be.

_Still and silent…_

A quick look at Enchanter Connor granted him an enquiringly bent eyebrow and a cool quirk of the lips that made Greagoir rather nervous.

He pointed to the unfamiliar shore. "We uh…" he began. "We appear to have changed um…direction." Greagoir's eyes flicked nervously towards the Templars and dwarf. He'd lived surrounded by Templars all his life. They came from all over Thedas and in different sizes, colour and temperament. Some were easygoing, like his uncle and father. Others…not so much. Some ended up slightly wilted from years of _lyrium _usage. His father hadn't, thank the Maker, owing to an inherited oversensitivity of the substance and his mother's aversion to her husband using it. In general however, Templars were sometimes a tad…_what was the word the First Enchanter used? _

Mage crazy.

And when Templars went mage crazy, there was a sudden, inexplicable explosion of blood mages and abominations, followed by heads rolling down staircases and apprentice stampedes in the dormitories…

Greagoir was rather attached to his head. Even more than that, his preference for his head to remain attached to _him_ was high on his Happy List. At the top of it in fact; above limb retention and the non-public display of all of his internal organs. Looking at the stiff armoured backs of the Templars, Ser Mauris' threat of drowning was made fresh and more immediate. On the one hand there was a possibility Greagoir would keep his head. On the other hand, drowning would still mean well…being dead. Which wasn't a preferred outcome at all. And _then _there was also the…

"Do sit down Gory," Enchanter Connor's voice coolly instructed him. "You're rocking the boat."

Greagoir shot a glance at Connor, not realising he _had _risen and the barge was indeed wobbling but…"My name is Greagoir," he corrected the older man and trying not to sound too self-centred about it. To his surprise, Connor threw back his head and laughed.

"I like Gory better!" Connor barked. "It suits you!"

Greagoir stared, unable to think of a reply that did not sound childish, petulant or imply that he wanted to kick the Enchanter off the side of Arngrim's boat. This was his first outside deployment since his Harrowing and figured it would be considered poor form, while in the presence of two Templars, to get into a fight with a more senior mage. Instead, he took a step towards Arngrim, intending to give the dwarf a light tap on the shoulder and find out what was going on. As he reached out his hand, Connor gave a shout and stood himself. The barge lurched to one side and the three men at the front of the vessel - Templars and dwarf - crumpled…in the case of Ser Ilrik, toppling sideways right over the side with an eerily near-noiseless splash.

"Stop!"

Greagoir's impulse was to dive in after the Templar, but found Connor preventing him.

"Don't waste your energy!" Connor snapped. "The man is dead. He cannot be helped."

"Of course he can..." Greagoir began to protest, pulling himself up short. "What do you mean 'dead'?" He jabbed a finger at the murky waters. "If neither of us go after him, he will be! I'm a good swimmer, I can…" Greagoir found himself being hurled to the bottom of the barge with a force he did not expect from someone of Connor's build. The Enchanter stood over him and it was only then that the realisation hit Greagoir: Enchanter Connor was not what he appeared to be. Or…well what he _appeared_ to be right now was a red-eye-glowing, possessed abomination which pretty much meant that…

"Maker's Holy Raisin Buns…" Greagoir rasped. "What the Fade are you?"

Connor waved an airy, almost bored hand at him, his voice tellingly double-pitched yet distant at the same time, as though there was more than one person speaking. "Surely you can tell, Gory? I would have thought it was fairly obvious."

"Well…at first glance…" Greagoir gulped nervously. Trying to position himself a little more comfortably amongst the barrels and hard-edged benches in the bottom of the boat, his questing hand found Ser Mauris' nose. The rest of the Templar's face did not feel any better. "What have you done?" _Why has he done this?_ Arngrim lay coiled a little distance away. To his relief, the dwarf twitched and groaned.

"Freedom," Connor stated, forcing Greagoir's attention back to the older mage. "That was the agreement. I wanted to see the world," Connor told him. "I needed a body. The mage kindly let me have this one." Whatever was in Enchanter Connor lifted hands, turning them over and inspecting them, curling fingers and flexing wrists experimentally. "It will do. For now. The Templars would have had to be disposed of sooner or later. They would have tried to stop me. It would have been most inconvenient if they had. Hardly any fun at all. The dwarf…" Connor's flashing eyes flicked irritably towards Arngrim. "The dwarf appears to be slightly more…problematic."

Stepping over one of the benches, Connor bent over the prone boatman. "You'll have to help me," he said to Greagoir's horror. "These dwarves are surprisingly heavy."

"Why?" Greagoir baulked. "How would you know? Throw random dwarves overboard on a regular basis do you?"

Connor shot an amused gaze at him. "For someone of your parentage Gory, you're remarkably dimwitted."

"And proud of it!" Greagoir snapped back. "Especially if it means I don't go around randomly murdering people…! Oh _Maker…_" He dropped his head into his hands. "Our phylacteries are in _Denerim, _you do remember? The Chantry will be hunting us as soon as they realise we haven't turned up at the _Spoiled Princess._"

"That is not my concern," Connor shrugged. "I need only use this body for as long as it is convenient. After that, I'm sure I'll find another willing vessel to occupy."

"I did have to ask, didn't I?" Greagoir muttered miserably, trying desperately to remember what the instructions for mages in these kinds of situations were, only to recall that it really wasn't a mage sort of job, but a Templar one. His eyes strayed towards Ser Mauris's corpse. Templars that were slightly more vigilant than these and _Holy Maker…that could have been father…!_ _Maker dammit! _This creature might not give a brass nug's bottom what happened to Connor and himself, but he was damned thrice if he allowed it to happen.

"You're thinking of stopping me, aren't you?" the Connor-abomination stated. "I can tell you now: don't bother. I can just as easily kill you as I did the others."

"But I hadn't said anything!" Greagoir protested. Connor smirked.

"Well, if it was _me, _I would want to stop me too," the Connor-abomination shrugged again. "So…will you help me or no?"

"No!" Greagoir spluttered. "Absolutely not! I'm…" With an awkward tug, he had drawn Ser Mauris' longsword from the scabbard on the Templar's back and rose. He swung it towards Connor, the blade wobbling slightly. He'd trained with a longsword before, but in the confines of the narrow barge with benches, a dead Templar and boxed provisions in the way, his footing was less sure. "So help me Enchanter, I'll cut off your head!"

The abomination threw back that head to laugh heartily. "And what will you tell them at the Tower? That a senior mage went berserk, killed two Templars and a dwarf but was vanquished by a junior mage who then returned to tell the tale? What _will _they think?"

_They…? _The point of the sword wavered slightly. Greagoir pursed his lips. It would look…bad if only he came back alive, he supposed. How would he explain what happened to Enchanter Connor? The two Templars? It…if his mother were here, she'd…but she wasn't here, Greagoir reminded himself. There were no other witnesses, only his word to go by. "Anything I liked," Greagoir told the older man, feeling little confidence in the claim.

"But you wouldn't," Connor's smirk widened. "You are no killer. Quite aside from the…"

"I have a duty!" Greagoir interrupted hotly. "Enchanter Connor's my…well okay he's not a friend and he's annoying and not someone I would invite out to a drink with the boys but that's besides the point! The point is…the point is…" _What is the point? _Would First Enchanter Torrin know Connor had been possessed by a demon by just looking at the man's decapitated head? Probably not. Nor would there be a way to prove he hadn't been part of this. He could quote his record of relatively good behaviour but against the reputation of a more senior, established mage and no one else to support his claim, even his father would not be able to extricate him. Then his Knight Commander uncle would be forced to make an example of him..._This is a mess…But what can I do? _

There seemed little choice.

Greagoir lowered Ser Mauris' sword, the metal clanging loudly above the wind when it landed hilt first on the Templar's armour. Connor's smile turned feral, hungry. "I knew you would see reas…"

He didn't see Greagoir's fist slamming into the side of his head and so the look of surprise was only very brief. The body the demon inhabited went slack, stumbling backwards. Greagoir caught a glimpse of the red in Connor's eyes winking out before the elder mages' legs bumped the sides of the barge then flipped into the air and disappeared. The splash of the unconscious Enchanter Connor hitting the water on the other side was far more audible than Ser Ilrik's had been.

"Oh for the love of…!" Greagoir groaned. Leaping over the benches, he vaulted over the side, diving in after the other man, the cold of the water hitting him like a wall of frigid stone.

-oo-


	2. Simple Travellers

A/N: Whoa! Chapter 2…and a heartfelt thank you to all of you who've stopped in to read this story, it's appreciated, even though I might not get a chance to thank you all individually.

Also, warning to the kiddies and delicately-minded…some rather adult concepts at the end of this so have mum or dad cover your eyes and no peeking ok?

-oo-

**Chapter 2 – Simple Travellers**

The mage twitched in his sleep; lips moving with dream-cast spells or whatever it was sleeping mages dreamt of. Greagoir watched him, hunched against a lichen-covered boulder, alternating between analysing every twitch and spasm and pondering his own options. He was disappointed he couldn't come up with more than one or two: _Run…or turn ourselves in. _Neither of those appealed. No doubt the alarm had been raised by now by those waiting for the _Kester's Pride _to return. Word would get back to the Tower, Knight Commander Bryant would mobilise his Templars to search for the two of them - now branded Apostates – his phylactery would be sent for…and his father would be told.

_Maker, this is a mess…_

He glared at Enchanter Connor again. "Prat," Greagoir muttered darkly at the sleeping mage. "Thank you _so_ much for nothing."

Tipping his head back, Greagoir glared moodily into the pale, cloudless sky. It was past midday and breakfast seemed a long-distant memory with little promise of new ones to make up for the loss. He supposed he could hunt something, but with what? He could find a suitable bit of branch for a fishing pole, but with no string or wire to make a hook…or even any bait, the exercise would be a bit pointless. The same applied to hunting anything out of the forest. Not that he would eat anything that came out of Lake Calenhad; and by extension any creature that dwelled too close to the polluted lake. Redcliffe might have a thriving fishing community but Greagoir knew full-well what the mages put _into _the waters.

It wasn't just failed potions.

Connor twitched in his sleep again. This time, Greagoir picked up a pebble and holding it between thumb and forefinger, took aim…

"I wouldn't if I were you."

The pebble dropped into his lap, falling to the ground as Greagoir sprung to his feet. Fists held before him, Greagoir dug his heels into the rocky ground, arranging himself into a fighting stance. "I know what you are abomination!" the younger mage cried. "I will not let you kill again!"

Connor passed a hand over his eyes before pinning his companion with a look of tired boredom. "So dramatic, Gory?" Connor's eyebrow angled scornfully. "And no magic either? I wondered whether the rumours about you were true."

Greagoir's fists lowered very slightly, though he brought them up again when Connor clambered stiffly to his feet and advanced towards the younger man. "Back demon!" Greagoir warned. "You have no place amongst mortals! Back to the foul abyss from whence you came!"

Connor sighed and shook his head. "There really is no hope for you, is there?"

"I'll be the judge of that, foul fiend!" Greagoir shot back. "Back, I say!" Forgetting completely the boulder directly behind him, Greagoir stepped back and lost his balance; the world upended abruptly. He landed ungracefully on the other side; the only thing preventing from embarrassing himself completely being his current garb. If he'd been wearing his Circle-issued robes, he would not have been able to return to his feet as quickly, though as soon as he was fully upright, he felt Enchanter Connor cuffing him sharply on the side of his head.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"For being a dimwit," Connor told him tersely. "The demon has returned to the Fade for now and I have no patience for your stupidity."

"Oh…_oh_…"Greagoir began backing away again. "We're on to calling names now are we? Stupid am I? Who was the dumb nug who allowed himself to be _possessed_, I ask, huh? Not me that…What do you mean 'rumours'? What rumours? What have they been saying about me at the Tower?"

"Stupid _and _slow," Connor snorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Andraste preserve me from idiots."

"Hah!" Greagoir stepped forward. "Better Andraste preserve you from the Templars! You're an apostate now!"

Enchanter Connor folded his arms and gave the younger mage a _look. _"So are you," he reminded him.

"And whose fault is that, huh?" Greagoir argued. He shook his fists at the sky, unhappy at being reminded that he'd been tarred with the same brush as the abomination, "Why _me_? Why world? _Why?_"

"That is a question for the First Enchanter, not I," Connor informed him. "You were certainly not my choice when I requested another to accompany me to Denerim."

Greagoir blinked at Connor in wonder. "Eh?"

"Never mind…" Pushing past the younger man, Connor made his way to the shore of the lake. He stood for a moment looking first in one direction, then in the other. He sighed again. "We appear to be somewhat…north of the Tower," he stated quietly, almost under his breath. "Kinloch Hold is not visible from here so…"

"Well, that's not so bad," Greagoir joined him at the water's edge. "If we start now and work our way along the shore, we might be able to reach the Tower some-"

"Don't be ridiculous, man!" Connor snapped and began to walk in a direction that appeared to be completely _opposite _to the one Greagoir was about to propose: namely, southwards towards the Tower of Magi. Hopping from foot to foot, Greagoir briefly contemplated what he should do next, when Connor's back disappeared completely from view beyond the shrubbery and he allowed instinct to take over, jogging after the Enchanter.

"Uh…" Greagoir thumbed over his shoulder. "You appear to be going in the wrong direction…"

When Connor did not stop, Greagoir increased his pace. Being taller and somewhat fitter, the younger man caught up easily. Attempting to pluck at the other mage's sleeve for attention only earned him a smack on the hand. Greagoir scowled. _Maker…he hits like a girl…_"I said you're going in the wrong direction," he told the older mage again. "The Tower's back that way."

"Then by all means, go," Connor told him, waving a hand at him. "I am not responsible for your fate. Do as you will."

Greagoir's jaw dropped, boggling in disbelief. "'Not responsible'?" he quoted. "Not responsible? If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here! I'm not the one who killed two Templars and…_Oh Maker, _this is such a mess! Will you slow dow…" Greagoir reached for the man's arm again, only to find a stinging ball of flame between them. Greagoir paused, eyeing the fire crawling about the Enchanter's fingers sourly. "What's this?" he asked.

"Fire!" snapped Connor. "A spell even a witless apprentice can master from the earliest age, unlike _you!_"

Greagoir blinked, completely unafraid. He wasn't, not in the least. A mage…_afraid_ of magic? He hadn't survived years of dodging ice storms, lightning traps and poisoned small clothes in the dormitories to be afraid of magic at the end of his time as an apprentice. And his mother had never been averse to utilising spells from the various schools of magic to discipline wayward children. Apprentices learned early on that being assigned to one of Senior Enchanter Amell's classes was not – as first thought – an honoured privilege, but a test of their mettle. A test few passed. Being threatened by fireballs or a sheet of ice down the back of his robes was as familiar and homey as a hug from mummy.

"No…" Greagoir said slowly, silently assessing the intensity of the flame and wondering whether this was the best that the Enchanter could do. "I meant…is this some kind of threat?" he enquired calmly. "If not, well…I'm afraid you'll find I've completely run out of marshmallows." He frowned as the realisation – abhorrent as it was to him - occurred. "You don't intend to return to the Circle, do you? Never intended?"

The fire abruptly disappeared. Enchanter Connor raised his chin, the hint of a sneer about his mouth as he appeared also to come to the realisation that the younger man towered over him more than he remembered; Greagoir's solid, honest bulk an affront. "Well done," Connor sniffed. "Even if the connection made was rather belated."

Greagoir's frown deepened. "But you're no Apostate…" he said slowly and very carefully, considering the thought from all angles in his head and hoping the statement was actually true…and that this was all a dream and when he woke up there would be pancakes and bluebirds and all would be right with the world. "So, why?"

Connor shrugged and turned away. "That is not your concern." Waving his hand at the younger man again, he added. "Follow me or turn back, I do not care. I only beg you do not foul the air with your nonsensical utterances."

"Hah!" Greagoir called after him. "You haven't heard me sing!"

In no time at all, Enchanter Connor was again lost from sight though Greagoir could still hear the man moving noisily through the scrubby forest. His frown returned. Greagoir had some rudimentary knowledge of forest-craft. If needed, he could call on those skills taught to him by his father and the Teyrn's brother, though he'd prefer to do all of that conventionally, with bow and arrow and dagger, rather than with magic. No doubt the Enchanter would be able to tell edible vegetation from the poisonous, but crashing across the landscape like that was going to alert every wolf, bear and bandit within hearing distance. There were also tracts of land across Ferelden that were still tainted from the Blight and needed to be traversed carefully or not at all.

Having absolutely no idea how self-reliant Enchanter Connor was outside the Tower, Greagoir felt a pang of guilt in leaving the older man to his fate. He knew he should return to the Tower. The both of them should. Short of rendering Connor unconscious for several hours – long enough to carry him back to the Circle – however, he didn't like his chances of being able to convince the older mage that turning themselves in was the more sensible option. _I could go back on my own, _he thought briefly_…face whatever punishment was in store.._.What was the worse that could happen if he did so after all? Solitary confinement? Lines? _Incarceration…_his busy brain supplied outcome after outcome, until he reached..._Aeonar…Being turned Tranquil._ He could argue his case (he supposed) but the fact of the matter was there would still be the missing Templars to explain. In the absence of Enchanter Connor, the Chantry could very well hold _him _accountable for their deaths. He'd been part of the Circle long enough to know that the Chantry saw one mage exchangeable for another, despite the reforms the First Enchanter had been able to sneak through.

Yet, Greagoir knew that if he followed Enchanter Connor, it was the same as throwing his lot in with the man. He could try to convince himself that he was doing it as his _duty _as a good mage, but again who would believe him?

_The Senior Enchanter would…_

"The Senior Enchanter would have had Connor's head off by now…" Greagoir muttered darkly under his breath. In any case, thinking about what the Senior Enchanter would or wouldn't do was a bit of a moot point. She wasn't _here. He _was and he was in this whether he liked it or not.

_Just have to make the best of it, eh? _

_Or else…wait for the inevitable cry of 'Stop Apostate!', followed by a bit of a sting around the neck area…_

Gritting his teeth, Greagoir took a deep breath and plunged into the forest after Connor.

-oo-

A family of squirrels chattered noisily somewhere overhead. Several footsteps away, Connor plucked broken pieces of the countryside from his hair irritably. The set of the man's shoulders told Greagoir he was refusing to turn; to acknowledge his presence…to admit he was completely and utterly _lost…_and tired…and hungry no doubt. Greagoir's own stomach had been rumbling hollowly for the past hour, even though he'd been skimming handfuls of brambleberries every time they went past the same, tangled bush.

Sucking the last of the berry juices from his fingers, he snagged his thumbs in his belt loops and ducked a nut hurled by the now irate mother squirrel.

Ahead, Connor threw up his hands. "Confound it man! Will you cease that infernal racket!"

Greagoir gaped innocently. "I'm sorry, did I say something?"

"Nothing intelligible!" Connor snapped, slapping a leaf dangling from his sleeve with far more violence than the random bit of vegetation deserved.

"Oh well…" Greagoir grinned, knowing quite well the sound of his whistling was getting on the other mage's nerves. "You know how it is…" He spread his arms out wide, lifting his face to the dappled afternoon sun. "The great outdoors! Open air! Sunshine! Mm, smell all that fresh nature, just waiting to be smelled. Doesn't it make you feel glad to be _alive_?"

"A state of being that could alter at any moment," Connor threatened. "And that…_odour _is more than likely to have been the product of some vile forest creature's digestion than anything to do with something…_breathable, _you…slow-witted imbecile."

Greagoir smiled and extended a stained hand. "Brambleberry, old chap?"

Connor whirled away; Greagoir stifled a chuckle. If the other mage had been female he would have imagined _flouncing…ringlets bouncing in consternation…_Not that he was in a habit of imagining other, male mages as females…_Donk! _A better aimed acorn hit him square in the side of his head. Greagoir glanced upwards. Wiggling his fingers apologetically at the animal, he tried not to think of _squirrel pie _and hurried after Connor. The mage had set off into the greenery yet again. What followed was a string of colourful invective and the telltale _whoosh _of a fireball travelling through the underbrush.

Greagoir appeared behind Connor to find him patting out spot fires in his torn robes, his features red with anger beneath the ash…the thorny bush that had entangled him a blackened ruin about his feet.

"You know," Greagoir commented oh-so-casually as he approached. "I'm beginning to get the impression you don't like me." Tapping a finger on his chin, he added, "I _wonder _why that is?"

The fireball that skimmed past his ear burned the hairs from the right side of his nape. It would leave a bare patch in a funny shape for weeks, but Greagoir felt that on the whole, if he hadn't ducked out of the way in time, there would have been far worse to worry about. Skidding behind the nearest tree, Greagoir avoided another handful of flame by a scorched hairsbreadth.

"Have I said something wrong…?" Greagoir called out from his hiding place. "Forget to bring the right doilies for afternoon tea?" When a chunk of tree bark exploded too close to his head, Greagoir tried not to snicker. "Oh my!" he added, diving headlong into a patch of wild privet. "I do apologise…!" Attempting to navigate through the thick undergrowth turned out to be a bad idea. It had been a fair number of years since he'd been small enough to weave in between the tangled branches and underestimating his size and ability to move freely enough earned him a scorched backside and toes.

Emerging out the other side was an awkward business. Greagoir limped upright only to have the Enchanter slamming him forwards into a shallow pile of leaf litter. It took him several precious seconds to recover and then move; far too long. He heard a grunting, guttural growl and saw a looming shadow before he rolled, dragging Connor with him. A second later he realised the other mage was unconscious and saw who – or what – had attempted to assault them; some sort of…creature. Vaguely human-shaped it had arms and legs in human proportions, but that was where any real resemblance to a _human being _ended. Lipless, hairless, its skin – if one could even call it that anymore – hung in strips from its frame and where it was not covered with a rotting collection of clothing and armour. The stench of it was nothing he'd ever experienced before and considering some of the experiments he'd conducted over the years, that was saying something. It was also armed.

He wasn't.

Abandoning Connor for the moment, Greagoir scrambled madly to his feet, frantically searching the immediate area for some kind of weapon. There was none to be found. In his mad dash to escape the creature, he failed to spy a tree root at the worst possible moment. Though his fall caused him to disappear abruptly out of range of another sweep of the creature's sword, it made him an easy target while he attempted to rise once more to his feet. He heard only an ear-piercing screech, felt something hard strike his shoulder then stumbled sideways. Tangling in his own feet he almost fell again, catching himself in time.

He needn't have worried.

The creature was dead…and the screeching individual was busily despatching another who'd found Connor.

_Dwarf…?_

Greagoir stared with dumbfounded gratitude. Whoever this individual was, they…

"You stupid or something?"…Her, was it? Her voice reverberated in the heavy, full-face, angular helmet before she drove the handle of the very large, bloodied battle-axe into the ground at her feet. Reaching up, she wiggled the helmet free. Masses of chestnut curls tumbled free about her shoulders, framing a pale oval face generously peppered with dark freckles beneath the jagged edges of a dark tattoo that adorned almost the entire right side of her face. It gave the impression that she was peeking out from behind a mask; impossibly blue eyes assessing and then dismissing him as harmless.

"Eh…" She tipped her head forward and Greagoir found himself disappointed when her childlike curls obscured her face right up to the very end of her nose. "Washed it this morning…nah can't do a single thing w'it." A nose appeared, followed by a view of those blue eyes Greagoir was finding rather riveting. "Nug gotcha tongue, eh boyo?"

"Darkspawn more like…"

Greagoir jumped in surprise. He hadn't even heard the second individual arrive and as she made her way towards the dwarf, her footfalls barely made a crunch on the dry leaf litter. The newcomer was vastly different from the first. Where the dwarf was heavily armoured and covered from the tips of her tiny feet to the massive thick plate pauldrons on either side of her head, the elf wore…well it was hardly fair to say she wore anything. It would have been an insult to material…and stitching and…_Wonder how she copes mid-winter…?_

When the elf folded her arms, it caused certain parts of her to become even more visible than the narrow strips of cloth draped haphazardly about her limbs and body were willing to allow. Greagoir forced his gaze upwards…then sideways because the dwarf was poking rather aggressively at Connor's prone body.

"Ah…I wouldn't do that if I were you…" Greagoir began in warning.

"Eh?" the dwarf peered curiously up at him through her curly, titian curtain. "He ain't awake," she shrugged. "S'not like he'd notice anyhoo…"

She spoke – predictably – too soon. Connor gave a single grunt then bent a perfect ninety-degrees in the middle to sitting position. His glittering red eyes swept the scene around him and before the dwarf could act, had captured a stained, gloved hand and placed a kiss upon it.

"Ooh er!" the dwarf fluttered her eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. "This one's a bit of a charmer." She turned to her companion. "Shall I have his head off? Or should I aim a wee bit lower?"

The elf did not laugh, only narrowed her eyes distrustfully at first Enchanter Connor, then at Greagoir, as though their entire existence was his fault. Though…if he read the signs right and what had just woken up wearing Connor's body was _exactly _what he thought it might be, he _would_ be responsible for whatever came next.

Possibly death, maiming…screaming, babies crying in their mother's arms and little old ladies wringing their hands wailing 'why is the world so cruel…?'

_Probably._

So in the interests of maintaining peace and keeping the body count to an absolute minimum, Greagoir dove in between the dwarf and Connor. "Ah…you don't want to do that either!" he said hastily. "Because it's uh…uh…" Greagoir froze mid-sentence. The Connor-abomination had wound its arms about his thighs from behind, rubbing its head against…At Connor's height and Greagoir's position, where Connor's head happened to be at this moment in time made the speculative look the dwarf cast the both of them require an urgent – and vehement - denial.

"You too need a room?" the dwarf enquired, looking up at him through lowered lashes. "Darkspawn interrupted a tender moment here?"

"No!" Greagoir practically shouted, trying to prise the abomination from…around his…_person. _"Will you _stop _that, for the Maker's…!" He directed a pleading look at the pretty dwarf. "This is…this is not what it looks like, I sw…Well, alright it probably is what it looks like, except that I'm not…Andraste's smoking girdle, not _there_! Will you quit doing that…!"

"Eh?" the dwarf raised her eyebrows. "You tellin' me you aren't but you are being butt-hugged by another man?" she asked. "S'not everyday I get to be entertained by a couple of good-lookin' men doin'…Gotta admit, he's enthusiastic."

"He's also a completely and utter fu…" Greagoir paused in his attempt to lever Connor's arms off him briefly, suddenly feeling hopeful at the dwarf's words. "You think I'm good looking?"

Exploring this statement further was made impossible by the elf with a timely snort of impatience. Poking at the carcass of one of the dead creatures, she cast Greagoir another accusing look. "Strange for darkspawn to venture to these parts…" she murmured. "What were the two of you doing when they attacked?"

"We were…we were…"

Enchanter Connor sprang upright. Stretching an arm around Greagoir's cringing shoulders, he gave the elf a keen look. "And why would you be so concerned? We are just simple travellers." To Greagoir's horror and enduring embarrassment, Connor craned his neck and _licked _the side of his face…like a cat…or a child eating a milk ice or…_I want to die. World. Hear me. I don't even _like _Connor and now my reputation is ruined in front of two of the most beautiful…well the elf isn't that great looking if I can manage to concentrate on her face, but…Maker's arse did I just think that? Is Connor's abomination catching…?_

_Why aren't I dead yet?_

"Darkspawn…" the elf jabbed a finger at the nearest carcass, "is the concern of Grey Wardens!"

"Oh, I _see_…" Connor purred. "Grey_ Wardens…_How convenient. Darkspawn appear and so do the Wardens? Very good. Very good, I say." Nudging Greagoir with his nose and ignoring the younger man's painful jab into his chest with his elbow, he asked, "Did you hear that, Gory? Grey Wardens…how exciting. Aren't you excited?"

"I feel quite ill, if you really want to know," Greagoir grumbled. "And if you lic…Maker's right nut! Stop _licking me, you freak!_"

"Oh, but you're so tasty, Gory…"

"Shut up. And I am not!" He shot another pleading look towards the dwarf. "Look…" With a little bit more effort, Greagoir had freed himself from the Connor-abomination, putting some distance – and the corpse of a darkspawn – between them. "I'm quite _inedible, _I'll have you know!" _Maker-damned, vile monstrosity! _To make the picture worse, Connor threw back his head and cackled. A sound both worryingly insane and terrifyingly evil.

"Well..." Panicking slightly, Greagoir began bundling Connor from the area, "it was a pleasure meeting you both, but we had better get on with simply travelling as my…this person who I don't know very well and whom I rarely have any interaction with whatsoever and – clearly, absolutely nothing in common with - and I go on our way. Good da…"

One moment Connor was trotting obediently with him, the next he had turned back and was standing, looking charming and interesting in front of the two female Grey Wardens.

"I have a wonder…" Greagoir heard him say. "Would you be familiar at _all _with Warden Commander Neria Surana?"

-oo-


	3. Where We Are

-oo-

**Chapter 3 – Where We Are  
**

"I know what you are thinking…and I would advise you against it."

Ser Ryan stared intently at the back of the door. The impulse to chase after the messenger and threaten the man with violence to tell him _everything_ he might not have said had come and gone. There was no reason for the young Templar to omit details. There was so little to _omit. _The _Kester's Pride, _bearing Ser Alrik, Ser Mauris, Enchanter Connor and his son had not arrived at either its expected place or time. The first thing Arngrim's associates had done was to send a couple of riders to perform a sweep of the lake's shore west and south for debris or damp survivors. Anxious as they were to find the dwarf and his charges, all knew that if the barge had capsized, taking all of its passengers with it, _dredging _the lake would take a long time and only turn up a couple of empty sets of Templar armour.

Ryan knew better than to believe Greagoir would succumb to a mere barge overturning or springing a leak in any case. Quite apart from the fact that he had not been encumbered by heavy armour, the lad had learned to swim in the rough waters of the Waking Sea. A limpid pool like Lake Calenhad would hardly be a challenge.

"We have yet to hear from Gherlen's Reach or Redcliffe," Knight Commander Bryant added, returning to his seat behind the heavy desk. "If any of them managed to get that far in such a short space of time." His fingers – Ryan noted - tapped a soft, anxious staccato on the arms of his chair. "And I am _not _about to start jumping to conclusions," he added further, addressing his desk rather than his worried younger brother. "Or consider conspiracy theories."

Ser Ryan turned. Unlike the Knight Commander, he had remained standing. Resting both hands on the back of the only other chair in the room he frowned at the wood thoughtfully. "Sooner or later, you must."

The Knight Commander waved a dismissive hand. "Enchanter Connor is a trusted mage," he stated firmly. "A credit to the Circle. And I _know _Greagoir almost as well as you do." His fingers tapping on the armrest again, he continued, "If I were to compile a list of mages most likely to turn apostate, Connor and Greagoir would be the _last _on that list. And _you, _dear brother, in case you have forgotten, no longer have the authority to search for either."

"Except as a father," Ryan reminded him, with a lift of an eyebrow.

"Not even as a father," Knight Commander Bryant countered. "Once Greagoir entered the Tower, he became the Circle's responsibility and _you, _along with his mother – mage or not – relinquished any hold over him. You know that, brother."

Ser Ryan contemplated the edge of the large, wieldy desk between them. After all this time, meeting his brother eye to eye was difficult, even if there was only one of them to meet; Bryant's left eye being lost to whatever tainted creature had nearly bested Bryant during the Blight during his flight from Lothering with the other refugees. Alyce called the eye-patch the Knight Commander wore 'rakish', but Ryan felt otherwise. As far as he was concerned, the still-purple scars adorning the left side of Bryant's once-handsome face was a reminder of how much Ryan had failed his brother.

Though…if he had been able to convince his old Knight Commander to let him go to Lothering, what help could he have been? According to Bryant he and the remaining Templars had had little choice but to try their luck southwards towards Gwaren. By the time they had been able to leave, the darkspawn had cut off all other routes of escape. There was also the tiny fact that by the time _he_ had heard about Lothering, any assistance would have been too late.

Still…and the voice of his wife grumbled in his head, berating him for entertaining his incurable Martyr Complex.

_His wife…_

"Maker…" Ryan ran a hand through his hair. "Alyce will need to be told…"

"And as her husband, I have no doubt you'll have little trouble letting her know," Bryant told him cheerfully. Too cheerfully.

Ryan's eyes flew to his brother, and would have just as quickly darted away again if he hadn't forced his gaze to remain. "You're the Knight Commander…" Ryan said carefully. "As head of the Circle of Magi…"

"Psht!" Bryant waved his hand again. "First Enchanter Torrin is head of the Circle, not I. I just write the rosters for the Templars and look pretty in my shiny armour." He narrowed his eyes at his younger sibling. "I'm thinking…you had best take care Ryan," he began. "One would think you were _afraid _of your own wife."

Ryan folded his arms across his chest. "Nice try. No, I am not. I don't even know where she is right now."

Bryant's single eye widened. "Really? Well, neither do I."

"What do you mean?" Ryan's frown returned for another outing. "As the Knight Commander surely you have knowledge of the whereabouts of every mage in Ferelden…?"

Bryant merely shrugged. "Not really. Torrin has her doing something somewhere or other…" he said vaguely. "Surely you don't mean she hasn't told you? As her husband?"

"I don't demand a schedule in detail, if that's what you're asking," Ryan stated, thin-lipped. "I do trust my own wife to be able to conduct her own affairs."

"Oh of course, of course."

Heavy silence descended upon the two men with neither willing to look at the other, though Bryant did notice his younger brother gripping the back of the chair as though attempting to squeeze blood from the wood. Ryan on the other hand was becoming irritated by Bryant's finger-tapping. In the otherwise empty silence, it was a sound that caused his back teeth to grind. Eventually, Ryan chose to break the conversation stalemate.

"I should go and speak with the First Enchanter…" he suggested; to himself rather than to anyone else really.

The Knight Commander cleared his throat in a way that did not bode well, though not in a: 'I'm coming down with something awful; pass the honey and lemon' way.

Ryan forced his jaw apart to speak. "He's. Not. Here. Is he?" he asked tightly, already knowing the answer.

"No," was Bryant's too-short answer.

"Doing 'something somewhere or other' as well?" Ryan added, attempting to keep the sarcasm from his voice and failing.

"It must be catching," was the tranquil response. "These mages…all cooped up with each other in close quarters…Hardly any surprise, really."

Ryan released his grip on the back of the chair deliberately; finger by finger. If it had been anyone else standing in the Knight Commander's office, they would have received a straight answer; a short one and worded so politely that even the worst insult would sound sweet. Not that Bryant was in the habit of insulting people. He was a natural diplomat, with almost inexhaustible reserves of patience and an analytical mind. With his own family – in particular his younger brother – however, it was different. No matter how many years lay between them; how wide the distance or how varied the experiences, his brother was his brother and he would always take far, far too much pleasure in goading him into an emotional response…as though in doing so, he was balancing his behaviour towards the rest of the world at large.

"Should I find an _apprentice_ willing to tell me the whereabouts of the First Enchanter, do you think?" Ryan asked coolly.

The Knight Commander grinned. "You can try."

"And when I find Alyce, I'm setting her onto you."

Bryant stared, unimpressed at the weak attempt to turn the tables. "When was the last time you saw my dear sister in law?"

"Three months ago."

"Hm."

"Very eloquent, I must say," Ryan glared.

"Hm."

"Has it occurred to you," Ryan said tightly, needing to unclench his teeth again, "that I ask because I am actually _concerned_ for my family?"

The Knight Commander's eyebrows rose. "Considering your family, little brother, I would be more concerned for the world at large." Bryant paused a half second. "I will also reiterate my earlier warning to you: do not be tempted to seek Greagoir yourself. Any effort on your part to do so may be construed as attempting to hinder Chantry business…and no, that does not mean I have already made up my mind."

"I was not-"

"I know you Ryan," Bryant said with a shake of his head. "You wear your self-imposed guilt like a Templar wears his Sword of Andraste; for all the world to see and used as a weapon if the need does arise. For _once_ in your life let someone else help you. If something untoward has befallen either the mages or the Templars, we will know about it and we _will _act. _You," _he aimed a finger at his brother, "need to keep out of this. For your own good, as well as for Greagoir's."

Ryan opened his mouth to argue then reminded himself that Bryant did not know Greagoir's true parentage. Or feel the concern he did about the lad's all too convenient disappearance. Not counting young Greagoir himself, the people that did know had been sworn to secrecy and could be counted on the fingers of one hand. He was not about to add another to the list. As much as he trusted his brother, Bryant was the head of all Templars in Ferelden. His duty to the Chantry came first.

Even above his own family.

It was time for a different approach.

"In that case," Ryan said after a slow release of his breath, "I should try to find First Enchanter Torrin. He should at the very least be able to send Alyce a message, if not tell me where she is."

"Is that wise?" Bryant enquired. "Shouldn't you wait a few days for more information?"

"No," Ryan told his brother firmly. "Believe me when I say _not _telling Alyce early would be most _un_wise."

"In that case brother," Bryant said with an acknowledging nod. "If I were looking for the First Enchanter, my first stop would be Orzammar…"

-oo-

Connor had lied.

_Somewhat north of the Tower…?_

Greagoir gritted his teeth as he sighted down the edge of the sword he'd reclaimed from one of the dead darkspawn; its edge as dull as his enthusiasm for his fellow Tower – ex-Tower – inmate.

_Well, of course he'd lied!_ North? _North? _How Connor had managed to switch course to head _south_ down Lake Calenhad and escape detection by the lookout at Kinloch Hold would forever be a mystery. Perhaps he had help from the demon possessing him. Perhaps somehow the Connor-abomination had managed to penetrate the natural dwarven resistance to magic to influence Arngrim to change his course. Whatever the method, all this time Greagoir thought they had managed to wash up at the northernmost point of the lake, near the Imperial Highway. They were no where _near_ the Imperial Highway, but at an indeterminate, vague point between Redcliffe and the Lake Calenhad docks.

That description covered a _lot _of land. A. Lot.

The sword clattered noisily to the ground by his knee. Greagoir grabbed handfuls of his hair and growled in frustration.

"I'm an idiot…an idiot…an idiot…an…"

"Not sayin' I'm gunna argue with you, but you'll never get those kernicks and cracks out using a bit of crumbly stone."

Greagoir looked out from between the gaps in his fingers. The dwarf Grey Warden, Denny had hunkered down in front, hand extended.

"Try this instead."

It was a whetstone. He stared stupidly at the offering a few precious seconds too long. Denny tossed it into his lap, forcing Greagoir to go fishing around for it in places he'd rather not in front of a pretty girl. Even if that pretty girl had an axe that was sharper than his sword and she could knee-cap him faster than he could say 'allow me to open this door for you'. Her grin acknowledging his embarrassment, Denny swivelled towards the sword he'd thrown to the ground.

She too held it straight before her, squinting down the length of the blade while making noises of approval.

"It's dwarven made…I think," Greagoir said, trying to make conversation. "But…I suppose you probably figured that out right?" It had been obvious to _him_, with his fairly narrow knowledge of such things. The balance was slightly different than those made by human smiths normally and the pattern engraved on the hilt was definitely of the dwarven style, even though there were no visible house markings. Either that had been worn away or deliberately removed.

Denny shrugged. "I'd no idea. Does it matter, s'long as it does the job?"

"Well uh…" _A dwarf that didn't care about weaponry and smithing_, Greagoir wondered? "You've been to Orzammar a lot?" he asked carefully, figuring she was either lying (because how many people had already done that to him today?), or she'd been surface-raised.

Denny shrugged again. "M'family aren't whatchoo'd call 'traditional dwarfs'," she told him, handing the sword back to him hilt-first. "Never had much interest in mines, smelting and '_hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go'_."

"Oh?" Greagoir continued, hoping to glean more interesting information from the pretty Warden. It certainly made a nice change from brooding over the lying, double-dealing, conniving, murderous, Circle-betrayer that was Connor Guerrin. "Merchants then?"

"Accountant, actually," Denny gave up nudging him with the sword hilt and simply lay it against his knee. She sat back cross-legged, perching her chin on the palm of her hand to continue observing him. She didn't look particularly _interested_ however, just sort of _bored_. "You?" she asked.

"Me?" Greagoir blinked, wondering whether he should not mention the mage thing and thinking that might be a very good idea, especially if it provided some kind of separation from himself and the deceitful, perfidious, sneaky abomination. "I'm not from a family of accountants…Um." _Think fast! Say something nice…like how her eyes look like limpid pools of something…limp…id…_"Really?" was what emerged. "Accountants?" which turned out to be a relief, in hindsight. _Good old hindsight, eh?_

"Accountant," Denny corrected firmly, stressing the singular form of the word to add, "Just the one. Ma was the respectable one. Da was a bit of a feckless Freddy, but yer know…loveable 'n all that."

"Ah." _Well done Ser Charmer of the Year._

"You were goin' to tell me about yerself," she reminded him. "Before you went and threw a rock in the wagon spokes and upturned the cart."

"Uh…" Was she being sarcastic? She was wasn't she? "Well, as I said before I'm not from a family of account-ant," he said slowly, trying to come up with a plausible background for himself that wouldn't sound too suspicious or Connor could completely destroy by yelling 'Oi, mage!' out of the blue for no other reason than that he could because the demon possessing him had no off-lever and enjoyed making a complete donkey's arse of him "Actually," he began, "I'm from…"

"Oi! Mage!" Connor called at him from across the campsite. Greagoir slapped his forehead with both hands. _I just had to tempt fate, didn't I?_

Beside him, Denny frowned. "Yer name is 'Madge'?" she asked. "I thought it was Gary?"

"Gory," Greagoir said automatically, then cursed himself. "I mean it's Grea…" Would it really be a good idea to tell her his real name as well? Perhaps he should make something up? Keep them guessing? Or…just keep letting Connor call him names…? No, that wasn't an option. Sooner or later, lies had a habit of coming back to bite people very firmly on the bottom. Seeing as Lady Luck had not only deserted him but had left him with a bucketful of debts and an orphanage full of illegitimate children to feed and clothe, he decided against deceit. Unlike the demon.

_Damned demon._

_Bloody Connor…_

"Grey?" Denny squinted at him. "Your name is Grey now?" She shook her head in disgust. "You humans can't make up your bleedin' minds can you?"

"_Greagoir!" _Greagoir shouted, making Denny jump with the sudden announcement. Scooting backwards slightly, he added far more calmly: "Greagoir. My name is Greagoir."

The Grey Warden looked at him, weighing up this piece of information carefully. "Huh," she said. "Think I like 'Madge' better."

"Look, I…" Greagoir started when Connor jogged over to them.

"Ooh!" the Connor-Abomination cooed. "An intimate tete a tete. Should I leave the two of you alone or should I fetch my hurdy-gurdy and some candlelight? Listen, listen, this one has knowledge of a very good, romantic song…" To his horror, the Abomination threw back Connor's head, took a deep breath and began to sing…"_Ohhhhh! When it hides in the rocks and it's covered in spots…it's a Moray…! When it has rows of teeth, both above and be…neath, it's a Moraaaaaaay…!_"

"Good eatin' on one of those," Denny commented.

"My life is a mess…" sighed Greagoir. _Why didn't I ever think to hurl myself from the Harrowing Chamber? _

"Anyways!" Connor-Abomination clapped its hands. "I have a game! It's called Where Do You Think We're Going Next?"

"_Cough! Aeonar_…" Greagoir muttered with his fist against his mouth. The Abomination reached down and slapped the top of his head playfully and Greagoir's reason to live fell a few more notches, even if his will to murder the Enchanter in his sleep rose several more.

"I'll give you a hint: It starts with an 'S' and ends with a 'K'!" Connor announced. "No one? Oh, come on! You mortals are so hard to please…"

"Mortals?" Denny's expression darkened. "That's rich, comin' from a bleedin' _human._"

"Why don't you just tell us because we're – I mean _I'm _– stupid and have absolutely no idea where we are, much less where we're going?" Greagoir suggested in a rapid-fire delivery that made his own head spin.

"Now where would the fun be in that?" Connor pouted at him.

"Nowhere near me, that's for certain," Greagoir sighed glumly.

"Soldier's Peak," Denny told them both. She stood. Pointing at Connor, she added, "It's lucky we were both on our way back, otherwise the two of you'd have to make yer own way there, though why…" Her eyes narrowed at Connor, "you're so interested in going there is beyond me."

"To join the noble order of the Grey Wardens of course!" Connor announced.

"_What?_" Greagoir choked. "Since when?"

Connor struck a dramatic pose; one hand on his hip, the other sweeping upwards towards the horizon: "Since forever!" he informed them both. "And I have the Warden Commander to thank for that. Neria Surana saved the Arling of Redcliffe from vile abominations…"

"Not very well apparently," Greagoir muttered resentfully. "Since she _missed _one…"

"And the Arl himself from a fate worse than whatever it is would be worse than death," Connor continued as though Greagoir had not spoken at all. "Who knows what that could be? Being caught wearing socks in one's sandals? Accidental flatulence in front of the Grand Cleric? The possibilities are endless!"

"Well…" Denny shook her head at the eccentricity of humans in general. "Neria Surana ain't the Warden Commander anymore; Nate Howe is, but he ain't gunna turn down any volunteers, that's for certain."

Connor smiled a serene smile that for all appearances looked as though he'd been disappointed by this announcement, but was rallying his troops for the final charge all the same. "Oh, neither yourself nor your colleague mentioned this earlier…" Greagoir on the other hand, did not trust that expression at all. It reminded him of _dead Templars _and a comatose Arngrim, clinging to life in the bottom of a barge. He stood too; as surreptitiously as possible sliding himself between the Grey Warden and Connor; a gesture that the older mage noticed straight away.

"But I'm sure the _new _Warden Commander will be able to give us an account of the _ex-_Warden Commander's whereabouts." Connor smiled extra sweetly at Greagoir.

"Why this obsession with Neria Surana anyway?" Denny asked, peering out from behind Greagoir. The two human men were standing so close, looking very intently at each other that she felt very gooseberry-ish. Or else should find some snacks to keep her company while she watched the show. Maybe she should call Diele, except that the elven warden didn't trust either of these wandering eccentrics. Easy on the eye as both men were, one was jumpier than a nug on a spit and the other kept having odd, nonsensical conversations with himself. Denny was quite sure at least one of them was a mage; owing to the Circle-issued robes, sensible haircut and prissy speech. The other…

She looked up at Greagoir. There was something odd about this one. She felt sort of…tingly around him, like she'd sat on an ant hill by accident and a few had taken up residence in her armour and she was interested to know whether he'd still feel like that with all his clothes off…_now there's an idea…_

"Why am I obsessed with the Hero of Ferelden?" Connor repeated. "The one who saved us all? Why, hardly an obsession is it? I only wish to thank her personally." Instead of the spark of red, Connor's eyes flashed bright blue.

"For making me the man I am today."

-oo-


	4. Mostly Harmless

oo-

**Chapter 4 – Mostly Harmless**

"Are you sure about this?"

As she skipped – a habit she'd picked up trying to constantly keep up with the longer-legged elven Warden – Denny cast an enquiring look over her shoulder. The two humans they'd picked up near Lake Calenhad were quite a way behind, bickering. Again. She grinned a little to herself. They were like a married couple those two…

"Have you changed your mind, Den?" Diele asked quietly, her own gaze following her companion's. Her expression however was not amused, but thoroughly annoyed. Denny might find the humans entertaining but as far as she was concerned, they had better things to do than babysit a couple of men barely able to fend for themselves. _Apostates…_Curling her lip she returned her attention to the landscape before them. At this rate, it would take them another day to reach Lothering.

If the two humans didn't kill each other first.

Denny shrugged. "You know how much the WC loves recruiting mages, Diele. Even against Emissaries, they make formidable Wardens.

Diele snorted. "I have as yet to witness either of those two…_morons_ displaying any signs of magic. That taller one…"

"Cute, ain't he?" Denny skipped again, just to come alongside the other woman to jab her elbow in the side. "I wouldn't mind undergoing a Joining with _him…!_"

The elven Warden heaved a long sigh. "I am going to pretend I don't understand what you mean by that statement," she said.

"You surely don't object to them being outside the Circle?" Denny asked, watching her fellow Grey Warden carefully from the corner of her eye. Diele was from Amaranthine; a place known for growing very devout Andrastrians and supporters of the Chantry. Some of Diele's friends outside the Order were Templars; people who weren't known for loose interpretations of Chantry rules, especially where it pertained to mages. On the other hand, Diele was a Grey Warden. She wasn't supposed to care about that sort of thing.

"As long as we don't find ourselves at the wrong end of a Templar's sword, I don't care," Diele snapped. "It's all very well to accept mages on the run from the Circle," she added more calmly, "I _suppose, _but until they've successfully undergone the ritual, the Chantry still have their right to seize them _and _have us arrested for aiding apostates."

_Ah ha! Thought as much,_ Denny tried not to smile. "There's always the Right of Conscription…"

Diele snorted again, thumbing sceptically over her shoulder. "_Those _two?"

"We can always throw a bandit or two at them; see how they fare…" Denny suggested, though the term _darkspawn bait _came too readily to mind. If the reports were true, they _were_ more likely to be tested against more darkspawn than the odd thief or highwayman and she was no expert. The Commander was better at picking out the best people from dozens of potential recruits. At either a glance or a long, lingering look at either human, she could not predict how either would perform against an enemy. That encounter by the lake did not count. And the thought of facing a group of darkspawn out here with a mage that was unpredictable at best and a boy who didn't know how to sharpen a sword properly did not fill her with confidence.

Denny sighed. "Well, how about this?" she began slowly. "If we come across a Templar, those two are fair game. We make it to Soldier's Peak and we can leave it up to the Commander to decide, how's that?"

Diele ducked her head, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "How many days is it from here until the Peak?" she asked pointedly.

"Too many?" Denny ventured.

"And we haven't exactly found what we were supposed to find," Diele reminded her. "I'm not too sure if it's a good idea to return to the Peak when we haven't exactly completed our task."

"True…" Denny conceded. Looking forward to a warm bed and a meal they didn't need to kill themselves, she was disappointed to admit either were as far from her future as when they first started out. "It would mean letting them tag along until we're finished."

The elven Warden responded by scrunching up her eyes as though in pain.

"Lucky they're amusing," Denny added.

"To you maybe," Diele said, her shoulders hunching unhappily. "To me, they're…insane."

"I like insane people," Denny stated simply. "It's like being at home with the old folks, but with longer legs."

Diele cast the smaller woman a look that implied clearly insanity was not the sole domain of humankind. "On another subject," Diele added, narrowing her eyes at the diminutive woman beside her. "What's with the weird accent?"

"What accent, look you mun?" Denny snickered.

"Forget I asked."

"Eh, forgotten already lassley Warden! And anyway," Denny added in her own, unaccented Fereldan voice, "If we're lucky, they might be mostly harmless."

Diele shook her head, rubbing at her forehead now. She could feel a headache coming on. _Mostly harmless…_Luck would have absolutely nothing to do with that. It was a statement she hoped would not come back to bite them.

"And if they're not?" Diele asked, because she knew she had to.

Denny grinned. "Then we have something to throw at the darkspawn while we make good our escape, yeah?"

-oo-

"Lothering…" Framed beneath the ruined arches of the ancient Tevinter aqueduct, Connor spread his arms out in a dramatic, all-encompassing gesture. "Pretty as a picture."

"So they say…" Greagoir's mouth twisted downwards unhappily. Giving his fellow mage a look of disapproval, he sidled several steps further from the abomination. Jostled by the crowd passing beneath the same ruins, he hoped the distance he put between them might make it seem as though he had nothing to do with the demon-mage. He had been dreading going anywhere near a town or settlement; anywhere there were people who could report them. Lothering was a big town, with a Chantry. There were Templars in Chantries. Templars with swords. In Chantries…_With swords._ His frown of disapproval turned into an intense glare of dislike directed at Connor's unsuspecting, raggedy back. That was another thing. Their impromptu dunking in the waters of Lake Calenhad, followed by the fight with darkspawn then travel across country had given Connor's Circle-issued garb a look that screamed '_Escaped! Escaped from the Tower! Call out the Dogs!'_

Neither of them had had an opportunity to shave and while Greagoir might only have a few scant hairs struggling for existence on his chin, Connor was a different beast altogether. It was clear the Guerrins bred for their _hirsute _characteristics_; _the growth sporting the older man's cheeks and jaw making him look even more wild and dangerous-looking. And even if countryside inns and taverns might be used to rough-looking folk, Greagoir had no idea how they would go about paying for a room and bath. The Enchanter had been the one carrying the majority of their travelling funds and whether or not the demon had thought to preserve their coin pouch, Greagoir had no idea.

"We'll be heading for the tavern," Diele announced, breaking into Greagoir's thoughts. "Try not to get into trouble while we're gone."

"You say that like you don't intend for us to come with you," Connor batted his eyelashes at the taller of the two Wardens.

The elven Warden's eyebrows drew downwards. Folding her arms across her leather-clad chest she too glared at the human mage. "That's because I don't," she told them. "This is Lothering," she stated, as if it wasn't already clear from the sign post pointing towards the centre of the town or Connor's announcement earlier. "Lothering has a Chantry and Chantries have _Templars. _With swords." She raised her chin at him. "Or have you forgotten?"

Before his mind could properly warm up to the subject, Greagoir raised his hand. "I didn't." _And how did she read my mind…?_

"That's because _his _father…" Connor made a rude gesture at Greagoir over his shoulder, "is a _Templar…_"

"Ah…ha, ha, ha…Shut up Connor."

"Which reminds me," Connor added, stroking his chin at Greagoir. "You might have relatives here, I'm sure. You wouldn't like to meet them? Give them your regards?"

"I'm good, thanks for asking," Greagoir replied tightly.

"Or would that be too embarrassing?" Connor continued nastily. "Admitting to them how far you've fallen? You're not exactly part of the Circle any more. Could be a tad awkward."

Greagoir narrowed his eyes at the Enchanter. "Is there a point to this?" he asked. "And should you even be saying something like that within hearing distance of anyone who might think there's a reward in that statement?"

Connor refused to meet his eyes, polishing his nails on the front of his robes instead. "No," he replied. "Not really. Just making conversation." Raising his head revealed a pout; a most unattractive one, embedded as it was between the scrubby beard. "Aren't I allowed to converse with my bestest; my favouritest, most specialest friend?"

"They don't teach spelling at your Tower, do they?" Denny enquired.

"I don't have time for this," Diele snapped at the three of them. "Stay, or come, I care not; only keep your distance. Whatever happens between you and any Templars that wish to apprehend you is your business, not mine!" With that, the elven Warden turned on her heel and was immediately swallowed by the crowd entering the town's gates. With an agreeable shrug, Connor took a step forward, intending to follow when he found himself being forced backwards.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Greagoir propelled him into the nearest pillar. "Bad demon! Naughty demon! No more playing with Templars!"

"Aw…"

"Whoa…this is gettin' too hot for me to handle…" Denny's voice appeared by Greagoir's side, though her beaming countenance told him she was anything but unwilling to remain for whatever might follow. "He's yer 'demon' eh? I _like_ that."

"It's not what you think!" Greagoir denied in heated tones. "It's…he's…" Slapping his forehead, he groaned in despair. Was there any point? "Ah…never mind…" He could see no other option. He couldn't let Connor go into Lothering. Not in the state he was in. As Enchanter Connor, with all his faculties intact, the opportunity to offend a passing peasant with his usual tact and sensitivity was already quite high. As a demon-possessed abomination actively looking to test their boundaries, chaos and strife were even more inevitable. _Well…more than there has been since I stepped into Arngrim's boat…_

Balling up his fist, Greagoir raised his arm. Before he could strike to render Connor unconscious, the mage swayed backwards. Connor clutched at his head then collapsed to the ground, leaving Greagoir standing above him with his arm still raised. Confused, Greagoir peered at his fist. "Funny," he muttered. "I'm quite sure I didn't make any contact…"

"Aw…nug crap…"

Crouching beside Connor, Denny scrubbed at her cheek. "Shoulda known this would happen…"

"What do you mean?" Greagoir knelt alongside the Grey Warden. As he did, Denny peeled back the torn edges of Connor's sleeve to reveal a wide, blackened scar. Connor had been able to stitch the flesh back together but the wound had become infected anyway. Though…Greagoir frowned, puzzled by the strange colour of the injury. Pushing Denny's hand away, he too tugged the material of Connor's robe; the better to assess the wound. Yes, skin and muscle had been rejoined, but what lay beneath the pale flesh had not healed as it should; appearing as a messy, spider web of black and purple radiating outwards from the initial gash up and down the Enchanter's arm.

"What the Fade is this?" Greagoir asked quietly.

"You don't know?" Denny asked, surprise clear in her voice. She cast a look about them. Connor's collapse appeared to have created a wide clearing around the two of them for now. Lowering her voice all the same, she told him; "The Taint."

Snatching his hands from evidence of the darkspawn taint, Greagoir stared at Connor in disbelief. _Why hadn't the abomination said something? _Had the demon known? Did the demon have anything to do with getting Connor infected in the first place? If so, _why_?

"Diele ain't gunna be happy about this, I can guarantee," Denny sighed, scrubbing at her cheek again. She slid a look towards Greagoir. "She didn't like you nug nuts coming along with us," she told him. "You can bet she's not gunna want to drag this boyo's carcass 'cross country to the Peak. I ain't carryin' him neither."

_And if Connor dies, will the demon return to the Fade, _Greagoir mused_?_ Will that solve the problem of having the abomination running about Ferelden in bodily form? _Damn! That's too tempting…_It would also be no different from what a Templar would have done, Greagoir knew. He was clearly taking too long to respond, finding Denny's sharp elbow nudging him for some kind of a reaction. "He's your friend," _jab. _"Whatcha gunna do?"

"One," Greagoir stated clearly. "He is not my friend and _two…_"

"Tell me later," Denny stood, glaring at the people around them who'd begun showing signs of curiosity, now that the initial shock of a young man fainting in public had worn off. "For the mo, let's just get him out of here and someplace quieter," Denny suggested. "Preferb outta town and these bloody gawkers." Thumping at her breastplate, Denny raised her voice, "Oi! You lot clear off! This is Grey Warden business, right! And no, I ain't gunna kill no wild bears, blighted wolves or packs of poisonous spiders for you, so don't ask!"

Crouching beside the unconscious mage once more, she inclined her head towards Greagoir. "Bloody Lotheringers…think they can use us as their personal quest service?" At his raised eyebrows, she added, "Long story, ya don't wanna know." Waving a hand at Connor, she continued more urgently. "Just pick him up. Sooner we get him away, the better."

The Grey Warden was right. Grabbing an unresisting arm, Greagoir hoisted Connor onto a shoulder, wobbling slightly under the man's weight and an arm that smacked him in the face as he adjusted the mage to sit a little more comfortably. He didn't like the thought of simply leaving Connor to succumb to the Taint. That was just…The Senior Enchanter's voice in his head very firmly reminded him of his Healer's responsibilities…even while the Knight Commander shook his head at him. Abominations were abominations and Greagoir had his duty to the Circle as well.

He waited for his father's voice to arrive in his head, to tell him what to do; to give him some kind of direction, but nothing arrived. All that he heard was Denny's more audible – and urgent - request for him to move.

-oo-

It was late. Without Arngrim and the _Kester's Pride, _services to and from Kinloch Hold had been reduced by necessity. The other vessels needed to be reserved for the merchants transporting their cargo to Redcliffe and beyond and he'd had to wait longer than usual for the last barge back to the mainland. By the time he reached the Lake Calenhad docks, the sun had sunk behind the white peaks of the Frostbacks and the sky had taken on a depressing purple grey that did not help his mood. He was angry and annoyed but not surprised at the way things had turned out. It had been well over a decade since he had worn the Prophet's colours. He was an outsider now. Just another ordinary Fereldan…

"Ah…" a voice emerged from the darkness. "Our hero returns!"

As he spoke a shape half-formed itself out of the gloom and shadowy piles of fishermen's netting and merchant's barrels. It remained a vague outline in shades of black until the speaker stepped into the yellow light of the dock lamps and even then, remained fairly indistinct. With his hood pulled low over his face and his cloak brushing the wood of the dock, few would have been able to recognise the individual, much less have an inclination to remain in close proximity for fear of their lives.

Ser Ryan however, smiled and offered a salute.

"Your Hi…"

"Shh! Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhshshshshshsh shsh!" the shadowy figure waved his hands urgently. "Not here, for the Maker's sake man." Seeing the older man smile however, he accused; "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Is using your correct title so bad?" Ser Ryan enquired.

"Yes," the black-clad man replied so quickly it was clear it was a question he was quite used to. "I prefer the far less offensive address of 'my lord', as you know perfectly well."

Ser Ryan saluted again. "As you wish…my lord…"

"Well alright, alright," the man waved his hand again. "No need to get all gushy about it." He indicated the looming spires of the Mages' Tower behind in the gloom. "You all finished here? How's the mini-mage? All grown up and ready to be First Enchanter?"

The two had begun their way to the _Spoiled Princess. _In the distance warm light spilled from open windows and the sound of music and laughter floated towards them on the evening breeze. The enticing aroma of almost edible things to eat lingered in the night air, reminding Ser Ryan that in all the excitement, there had been few opportunities for meals. He knew he could have stayed for supper with his brother, but the urge to leave the Tower had been too strong.

_When did I learn to hate that place so much, _he wondered with a snort. _When once, I used to call it home...?_

"I heard that."

Ser Ryan's head jerked up. "I'm…sorry, my lord?"

He found a black leather-clad finger prodding the air barely millimetres from the end of his nose. "Some thing is up." Lifting his own head, the younger man pretended to sniff the air. As he did, his hood fell back several centimetres, revealing dark hair and a set of suspicious blue eyes. "I smell an adventure…And _you_ have that look on your face," he added, narrowing those keen, all-knowing eyes. "The one that says 'how can I ask my lord for a leave of absence to take care of 'personal business'?"

Instead of being surprised, Ser Ryan chuckled appreciatively. "You never change my lord; and you are right. I do have some personal business to attend to."

"Ah…and here I was thinking you were going to say 'no, let's just go home James, and spring the horses while you're at it!'"

"Why?" Ser Ryan asked, one eyebrow twitching. "I don't think I know anyone called James."

"Neither do I."

A few more metres passed beneath their booted feet before the black clad man spoke again. "So…" he began, a hint of impatience mixed with eagerness in his voice. "Where are we going?"

Ser Ryan's smile was grim. "'We' are not going anywhere, my lord."

"What?" the young man clutched at his chest. "Depriving me of my favourite Captain already? My heart is quite broken. Anyway…" Hooking his thumbs into the top of his belt, the young lord paused mid-step, scuffing an idle toe into the muddy ground. "Mother's home this week…something to do with renewed attempts to breed more Couslands. Fergus very kindly sent me a note." A grateful grin accompanied this explanation. "So you can say I am looking forward to finding an excuse for being elsewhere. And a good one at that."

Ser Ryan tried not to grimace, he really did, but the last couple of days had been trying to say the least. _I'm not as young as I used to be. Where did my patience go? _Dragging a member of _royalty _along on his little search however…? Ser Ryan transferred his gaze to the inviting doors of the _Spoiled Princess, _thoughts of hot food and a tankard of ale beginning to take over everything else. He was only going to go to Orzammar; a trip that would take him through the safe Arling of Redcliffe, along a path well-worn by ordinary travellers and merchants. Once there, he would locate the First Enchanter, find out where Alyce might be then…What could possibly go wrong with such a simple itinerary?

His brain automatically switched his attention to Aidan Cousland beside him.

_What could go wrong, indeed…?_

The young lord was already rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "So…" he repeated. "With that in mind – because you couldn't possibly be so callous, cruel and heartless as to throw me to the ruthless matrimonial machinations of my mother – where are we going again?"

Orzammar _was _a location sanctioned for visitation by the princes, Ser Ryan told himself, though he did so with a twinge of guilt. While King Bryce was all for maintaining good relations with their subterranean allies, Ryan knew he was looking for excuses to have someone as experienced and capable in battle as the Cousland. On the other hand as Captain of the Cousland Guard, he had a responsibility to keep his lord _out _of trouble, not lead him _into_ it.

_Really, what could go wrong?_

"Anything and everything…" Ryan muttered under his breath. _I should know better than most how something simple can very quickly turn into something vaguely resembling stone fruit._

"And…" Cousland remarked, eyeing his Captain closely for an explanation of that particular, cryptic statement, "If it all goes pear-shaped you can bet it could not possibly be as bad as my walking down the aisle with some tittering, wide-eyed fashion disaster – Habren Bryland comes to mind – but I digress, Maker knows the woman should be shipped off to the Anders or somewhere else where she can do no damage to anyone but herself but I'm digressing again aren't I?. Look, I'm just saying-"

"My son is missing," Ryan told Cousland before he could continue babbling. "

"Missing? Missing how? Kidnapped?" he asked, counting off the possibilities on each finger. "Run away to join the carnival? Gone off on a prior appointment without telling anyone, what?"

Ser Ryan ran a hand through his hair. "The details are unclear, my lord," he told the younger man. "What I do know is that the situation is serious enough that my wife will need to be informed." _That is, if she doesn't know already._

"Ooh, scary." Tapping a finger to his scrubby chin, Cousland added, "You know, on second thoughts maybe I'm not that desperate to escape my mother. Being admired by pretty girls, going to parties, scratchy collars, wine, women and being dragged back home half-drunk by the coat tails by the Watch…what's not to love about that?" Extending a hand, he clapped it encouragingly on his Captain's shoulder. "I wish you all the luck in the world. Can I have your best long sword if you don't come back? Oh, and that silverite shield with the wiggly snake thing on it?"

Ser Ryan blinked. "Wiggly snake…?" He frowned. "I think you might mean the one with the burning sword of Andraste on it."

"Yeah that and…" Cousland aimed a light punch at Ryan's shoulder. "Idiot. You honestly think I'm going to let you face the ire of my favouritest mage in Thedas on your own? That is…if you expect her to be ired. Anyway…" Throwing his arm about Ser Ryan's shoulders, he steered them both once more towards _The Princess. _"Adventure, peril, fluffy white nugs and Dwarven beer. You know how I love to live dangerously."

"All too well, my lord."

"That sounded like criticism, but I'm big enough to let that pass, my dear Captain. And I'll ask you again…where are we going?"

Ryan sighed. "Orzammar, my lord."

"Oh, Orzammar?"

"To see the First Enchanter who will then (hopefully) inform me where I might find Senior Enchanter Alyce Amell."

"Dear me, so formal?" Cousland sniffed. "Oh well and Orzammar too eh? Well two out of three is pretty good," he added.

"Out of…?" Ser Ryan frowned, confused.

"I've always wanted to know whether fluffy white nugs ever existed," Cousland grinned. "That and mage panties…though I suspect the latter might prove more difficult – and painful - to verify…unless you're willing to…? Neh, didn't think so. Well," Cousland continued; his cheer irrepressible. "Never let it be said that I don't like a challenge! But for now…onward brave Captain! Tonight we partake of ale and surly, jaded, tavern wenches! Tomorrow, we adventure!"

-oo-


	5. High and Low

A/N: Apologies this chapter has taken so long to emerge. My muse decided she'd like to turn hermit for a while.

-oo-

**Chapter 5 – High and Low**

"We leave him."

Diele backed away, turning away completely from her companion after a few steps. There were tasks to do; important tasks; her brow furrowing with impatience to get them done. The thought of returning to the Warden's headquarters in Soldier's Peak with no new information weighed heavily on her. Clearly, their failure in finding something – _anything_ – meant more to her than to Denny. While she had not been officially appointed as the Warden in charge, Diele felt at least one of them should take this task seriously enough to want to continue, even if their lack of progress was disheartening to say the least. And the company of the two apostates were not helping them get anything useful done.

Reports had indicated large numbers of darkspawn around southern Ferelden near the uncharted wastelands for weeks before the Warden Commander had been in a position to send anyone to investigate. They were not the only ones searching, but Diele was concerned. Her family had fled the darkspawn during the Blight. Lothering was her birthplace, Amaranthine her family's sanctuary. Though she had been very young at the time, the terror of hurried escape; death all around them, bodies left by the roadside to rot...her parents' hushed, scared whispers in the night and the stain of the Blight creep always on the horizon…all of that still felt vivid and real.

Yet despite the supposedly reliable sources, she and Denny had as yet to encounter the kinds of numbers being reported. This meant either the reports were incorrect, or they were looking in the wrong places. If the latter was true, then what were the _right _places, if not those locations provided by trusted sources?

It was all very strange. Less than a dozen darkspawn near Lake Calenhad did not appear to match the reports. Still, if she and Denny had not come across those two apostates, they would have died. This stream of logic led her to thinking that it would be no inconvenience to let them succumb to a fate that the Maker had probably intended for them in the first place. If either man had _meant _to become Grey Wardens, surely they would have been infected closer to the Keep?

As Diele's brain sorted out the whys and ways to abandon Connor and Greagoir, she realised Denny had been jogging beside her, keeping pace with her long, angry strides with barely a puff.

"Diele…" Denny shook her head in disbelief. "'Leave' them here?" she repeated. "You can't be serious!"

The elven warden halted abruptly in her tracks. Folding her arms tightly across her chest, she glared sideways at her companion. "And how do you propose we transport him, Den?" Diele asked coolly. "I certainly don't intend to spring for a horse and cart. Haven't the two of them burdened us enough? We have to spend our precious coin on them as well?"

"But we can't just…" Denny started, her dainty mouth pursing in an unhappy pout. Leaning in closer, she lowered her voice deliberately so no passers by could hear. "They're _mages…_" she reminded the other woman. "You know what the Commander's stance is on _those…_"

"As long as they're whole, hearty and willing," Diele pointed out. "_Those _two," she added, her words dripping with scorn, "are none of the above. If anything they've been more trouble than they're worth…and you can stop that right now!" Diele waggled a warning finger at the dwarven warden, gritting her teeth against the wide, guileless eyes turned towards her; eyes armed with far too expressive, beseeching eyelashes. Diele rolled her own, practical, prosaic ones. "Honestly," she sighed. "You're as bad as they are!"

"Not true," Denny grinned, unapologetic. "I'm far cuter. And anyway-"

"There is no 'and anyway'," Diele cut her off sternly. "Even if they were worth recruiting, we can hardly drag the tainted one after us. There is no guarantee he'll even survive the journey back to Soldier's Peak."

"Soldier's Peak?" Denny repeated, bewildered. "What about-"

"_No_," Diele interrupted, knowing where Denny's thoughts headed. "Absolutely not. This is the perfect opportunity to rid ourselves of them. The reputation of Grey Wardens in Ferelden is by no means secure or perfect. Falling foul of the Chantry by protecting a couple of apostates is going to get us into hot water."

"Ohhh, hot water," Denny sighed. "Nug bumps, I could do with a tub full of hot water right now…" She peered keenly at the taller girl. "This is what it boils down to doesn't it? No pun intended on my previous comment about hot baths. _You're _going all Chantry-good-girl on me."

"That is not true!" Diele lifted her chin defiantly.

"Ooh er, yes it is," Denny insisted. "We're Grey Wardens," she added with a prideful sniff. "We're supposed to be ruthless lawbreakers…all for the sake of saving the world and all of that."

"I can be ruthless, make no mistake." Diele angled herself at the waist, bringing her nose level with the shorter warden. "By leaving those two annoying brats to their own fates. I've had enough of playing den mother to a couple of useless idiots."

Denny pouted again. "But they're _good looking _idiots Diele!"

"Well then," Diele waved a hand airily. "Do whatever you want to do with them, _then _abandon them."

"Bu…bu…what if I wanted moooooore?" Denny whined, while Diele sunk her head into her hand again, frustrated even more by the other Warden's inability to remain serious for more than five minutes at a time. "And anyway," Denny added in a more normal tone of voice, though she grinned briefly at her companion's expression. "There's something…odd about the taller one, don't you think?"

"Oh?" Diele asked wryly, "besides being completely bonkers, you mean?"

"Yes, yes that as well." It was Denny's turn to show her impatience. "Have you not noticed anything?" she asked. "Anything at all?"

Diele shrugged. Then she began to look thoughtful. "Well actually there is, now that you mention it."

"Yes, see I knew I could count on y-"

"My head hurts whenever one of them talks. Just _here._" Diele pressed her forefinger to the permanently creased area between her eyes, causing a hand-over of her habitual eye-roll to the smaller Warden.

"Now you're just taking the piss," Denny muttered sourly.

"Piss yes," Diele agreed. "Those two…" She pointed towards their camp. "No. I'd rather not take them anywhere, thanks."

Mirroring the taller Warden's stance and expression, Denny took a deep breath. "Except to Ost-"

"No."

"…agar. A trip that would take us no more than a couple of days, maybe three depending on how fast the ghoul walks," Denny continued, as though she had not been interrupted at all. "The Senior Warden-"

"_No._"

"…could perform the Joining. If they don't survive, then you have your wish and we can carry on with our mission-"

"Absolutely not!" Diele hissed, clenching her fists.

"…if not then, we have a couple of mage Wardens to help us out," Denny smiled, unperturbed. "The bonus being our illustrious and beloved Warden Commander gets more mages to add to his little collection. Ancestors know he gets through them fast enough."

Diele stared, resentment written across every centimetre of her angular face. It took her several seconds more to compose her next sentence. "Has it ever occurred to you that as junior Wardens, we probably don't have the right to recruit Grey Wardens?" she asked. Denny merely shrugged. "Then you are fixed in this course?" Diele's scowl deepened. "To try to make them Grey Wardens? What if the Senior Warden doesn't _want _to put them through the Joining?"

"Then you get your wish anyway," Denny shrugged again. "As our two tagalongs then become the Senior Warden's problem."

Diele turned over Denny's words, carefully checking for irony. The suggestion from the outside appeared sound. If…_if _the tainted apostate could make it to Ostagar and the Senior Warden was still there _and _had supplies on hand to perform a Joining well…it would be lucky for them wouldn't it? If not…

She sighed. Regardless of her own feelings, she could not in good conscience leave the tainted mage near such a populated place as Lothering. Of course, the _easy _way out would be to just kill the man and burn his body…

"You are not to kill him Diele," Denny said with a sharp, knowing look. "As if I couldn't tell what you were thinking!"

At first startled at being called out on her very uncharitable thoughts, Diele began to warm to the idea of handing responsibility of the apostates to someone else. She half-turned; looking towards their distant camp situated safely outside the borders of Lothering Village. Ostagar _was_ closer. She knew there were Grey Wardens there. Jader's Senior Warden went there every year about this time…for some sort of annual ritual to honour the Wardens lost there during the Blight. There was also some speculation he'd been scoping out the land to set up some kind of permanent Grey Warden outpost to watch over the Korcari Wilds.

"Do you have everything you need from here?" Denny prompted, still looking far too knowingly at Diele for her comfort. "If so we should take advantage of the remaining daylight for travel."

Diele smiled as best as her uncooperative face would allow. "Certainly," she replied, still hoping the tainted mage would expire by the time they got anywhere _near _Ostagar. "Let us by all means leave this place."

-oo-

Greagoir tucked the blanket about Connor's shivering body more closely then settled his back against a tree trunk, stretching his legs and crossing them at the ankles as he continued to watch the abomina-Connor warily. He knew the demon was watching _him_, despite the older mage's condition and closed eyes. Greagoir might not count himself as good a mage as his parent, but he knew enough to be quite sure the demon did not need Connor's eyes to keep an eye on him.

If Connor's body was failing, it was inevitable that the demon would seek another, more able – and robust - vessel to occupy.

Knuckling his eyes tiredly, Greagoir also knew he could not stay awake forever. He needed to sleep. Eventually. Once fatigue overcame him, would he be able to resist possession?

_How did Connor come to be possessed anyway? _Without it being noticed at the Tower? Templars _knew _these sort of things. They took lyrium before a Harrowing to heighten their awareness of magic and the Fade.

"You wonder how this body came to me?"

Greagoir startled at the voice, blinking weary eyes in an attempt to keep himself alert. Meanwhile, Connor's own eyes opened slowly, revealing the demon's watchful gaze behind the pale blue. Greagoir squinted and continued to blink. "You mind-reading now?" he asked.

The demon snorted in Connor's voice. "I am a demon. I see everything and everyone from the Fade."

"Great, wonderful," Greagoir replied sourly. "In that case you can tell me how far away that contingent of lyrium-dosed Templars are and how fast we need to run to keep away from them."

The demon laughed a laugh that was unlike anything he'd ever heard from the Enchanter. Not that he'd heard Connor laugh before. The older mage was about as humourless and entertaining as a dead vole. In fact, given the choice between keeping company with the demon and Enchanter Connor, Greagoir found himself leaning towards the demon. _Maker, if the Senior Enchanter ever heard me say that…_

"It's a 'mess', isn't it?" the demon chuckled. Bending a perfect right angle at the waist, it sat up. To Greagoir, Connor's limbs might as well have been tied by strings and made to move like a puppet by some, unseen creature far, far above them. "Isn't that what you like to say?" The demon leant forward slightly. Greagoir resisted the impulse to scoot backwards, helped by the fact that there _was _a tree in the way. "I could make all of this go away," the demon suggested persuasively. "Return you to the Tower and make all as it was before you left…"

Greagoir stared, the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably, even as the words the demons spoke enveloped him, warm and caressing…inviting. It was…_wouldn't it be nice…?_ This wasn't what he has signed up for, everything that had happened to him so far. Not what he was led to believe. He'd been dragged along, against his will…except…except. He could have left at any time, but he hadn't. So, what had compelled him to come along? Being branded an apostate anyway? Turned Tranquil because he'd 'escaped' once?

The demon chuckled again, the sound burbling along the surface of his skin a not unpleasant sensation. He didn't see Connor, but something else. Something far, far more appealing.

Without seeing it move at all, the demon had closed in on Greagoir; Connor's rather prominent nose barely millimetres from his own. It clucked its tongue in sympathy, warm breath tickling the finer hairs on his cheekbones. "Poor, poor Greagoir," it crooned. "So _mean_ of us to put you through all this…_inconvenience_. So unfair, so cruel. You deserve better…you deserve much more…"

"I do…" Greagoir's lips moved. The sound emerged without his brain even willing it to. It just happened.

"Tell me what you want…" the demon whispered, its voice sinking below the layers of Greagoir's skin and muscle to bone…travelling through his veins, pumping through his heart. "Tell me what you need…"

_What do I want…?_ There were so many things, so many ways his life could be made better. Immense power at his fingertips. All of this gone, his slate wiped clean…It was…his mind reeled with the possibilities, in dizzying heights of opportunity. His life stretched out before him in one endless, never-ending blank sheet, ready to be filled…the way he wanted.

"I want…"

"You want…"

"I…want…"

"Yes?"

"A pork pie, actually." Placing his hands on Abomina-Connor's shoulders, Greagoir gently but firmly pushed the creature away. "Because I'm dead starving and Maker knows I haven't had anything to eat that wasn't moving several seconds before it ended up in the communal pot. Bit of an _inconvenience _plucking the fur out of my teeth afterwards too. You know what I mean?"

A slow smile spread across Connor's face. Greagoir found himself shaking his head. _Maker, _the man looked pathetic. If the blotchy, pallid complexion and red-rimmed eyes did not give him away as someone deathly ill, the evidence of the taint in blackened, diseased patches on Connor's skin would have been the next hint. Chuckling again, the demon sat back on its haunches, regarding Greagoir with a hungry, speculative look.

"You are surprisingly resistant, mage…" it purred.

_Yeah, that and the ability to cast a bloody good Mental Fortress,_ Greagoir grimaced to himself. _Funny the things you pick up when there are not one but three Templars in the family. Four if you count…never mind._

"You should rest," Greagoir informed the demon. "I don't know what reason the Enchanter has for meeting with the Grey Wardens, but he won't get there unless you help him to do so."

The demon shrugged. "You care for this 'Enchanter'?" it asked.

Greagoir sighed. "Does it matter?" he countered.

"I like to know my chances."

Greagoir's grimace deepened. "I'll uh…no. Just…_argh!_" Rising swiftly to his feet, he ran his hand through his hair. "Just leave me alone, alright? I'm _not _interested in being possessed!"

The demon pouted at him. "Who said anything about 'possession'?"

"Argh!"

Retreat. Retreat was the best option and Greagoir decided to take it before he did anything…silly. As he stepped away, he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned cautiously, snatching his hand from the Abomina-Connor when it attempted to claim it, running Connor's cracked and bleeding fingers over his own.

"Strange…" the demon frowned with Connor's face. "You seem so…normal. And yet I know what you are. I wonder…" It looked up with him with large, enquiring blue-red eyes.

"You wonder what?" Greagoir asked warily.

"Even if I wanted to…could I?"

"Could you what?" Greagoir asked, starting to back away again. The demon smiled in response, holding a bony finger to peeling, blackened lips.

"Ah…" the demon purred mysteriously. "That would be telling…wouldn't it?"

-oo-

Down here, she could feel a rhythmic pulse; like the heartbeat of the world reverberating through the stone. Coupled with the heat from the lava flowing deep in the ravine to the other side, she could imagine being curled up inside the womb of creation; protected, warm, tended to carefully before they could be thrust into the cold harshness of the outside world. Well at least, it _would _have felt like that if not for the steady ooze of tepid water through the cracks and fissures in the wall making everything slippery and the permanent stench of darkspawn overwhelming everything else.

She had been warned about what it would be like down here. Warned yes. Prepared? Not so much.

It still had to be done…_curse you First Enchanter! When I get back, I'm going to demand a…demand a…_"Well I'm going to demand something entirely impossible, but _well-_deserved, that's for certain!" she gritted, her foot slipping yet again on slime-slick rock. _Why _she was _here _specifically, Alyce could not say. Or remember. Too much of her Thinking Space was being taken up by the fact that she _was _here, looking for a woman she didn't like in order to locate a person she didn't know so that something that might or might not exist any more could be found.

Pausing for a moment to brush sweat-sticky hair from her forehead, Alyce leant up against the rock face; her ears open for the reassuring clink of armour. Letting the Legion get too far ahead of her was dangerous. It would be too easy to get lost down here. _Maker…I get lost heading to the outside privy at home…_Or maybe it worked in reverse down here? _Because _anyone was expected to get lost in the Deep Roads, a person who _regularly _found themselves geographically bewildered would know _exactly _where they were at all times…?

"Ho there, Mistress Mage!"

Alyce turned and squinted into the gloom. "Yessss?"

The dwarf that emerged into the murky red light glinted black-silver, a jewelled tooth sparkling the briefest moment as he grinned at her. "Took a wrong turn back there, Mistress," the dwarf informed her. "You'll want to come this way. The boys are setting up camp."

_So much for that hypothesis…_Alyce grimaced, setting after the Legion of the Dead soldier.

"So…" Alyce ventured, her voice echoing off the dripping walls. "Why are we stopping already?"

The Legion soldier snorted. "Well, we been on the move nigh on most of the day," he reminded her. "Some of the boys are getting a bit stomach-growly."

"Ah…well then…" The circuitous tunnel opened out into a low, cavernous area. There was a stream and the remains of a stone bridge, with plenty of clear space to spread out a bedroll. One of the Legion was already preparing the campfire, arranging stones and a pile of those large pellets the dwarves used as fuel. There were no trees in the Deep Roads after all – mostly – and whatever was in those little black nuggets burned slow, hot and long, like charcoal but…not. They were also light enough to carry. She even carried her own share of them; the smell wafting from the parcel of in her pack smelling suspiciously of animal…dung.

Whatever they were composed of, Alyce had to admit that without them meal times would not be as happy, so she did not complain or comment. Not did she skimp on her share of tasks. This wasn't a holiday. She was here on Official Circle Business. Sort of. Which was to say 'official' Circle business that was not _actually _Circle business…

"Excuse me, Mistress Mage…could you?"

Alyce looked down into wide brown eyes, crushing very firmly the impulse to pinch the soldier's cheeks. _Goylan…wasn't it? _It took her a stupid second longer to realise what the dwarf was saying.

"Oh…sorry…" With little other thought, she directed a long, thin stream of fire at the circle of rock, until the fuel began to glow orange red…then blue-white. Goylan chuckled, shaking his head a little.

"I'll never stop being amazed by that, Mistress I don't mind saying."

Alyce shrugged. "Just let me know what else I can do and I'll do it," she told him. Goylan looked up at her in surprise.

"Eh?" he blinked. "You've healed our injuries, blew up a posse of darkspawn, brought down a bronto single-handed and you've been marching alongside us like a rock-wraith possessed. I dunno whether there _is _anything left for you to do for us, to be honest."

"Knit you a bobble hat, perhaps?" Alyce suggested. The young dwarf removed his iron helmet to reveal a thick head of black hair, braided in neat rows to keep the curl mostly tamed.

"Think I'm alright keeping my head warm Mistress, thanks for the offer," he replied with a smile. "You just wait, eh? We'll have supper fit for a Paragon in no time." With that Goylan returned to his fire, unfolding his metal pot stand and busying himself with the evening meal. With a sigh, Alyce turned away too, wandering over to the bridge to inspect the stream. The water looked inviting; so did the thought of a bath but she doubted the dwarves would appreciate her washing her filth off in their drinking water. If she could find something to use as a basin perhaps…?

She looked around, but there was only rock, rock and more rock; the monotony broken up by the odd bit of stone…some air…and of course the stream here as well. Along their journey they had come across a few ruined Thaigs; entire cities and towns long-abandoned to the darkspawn and then forgotten to history. The Legion of the Dead Commander, a cheery older dwarf by the name of Hirral had provided her with a potted history of some of these old 'lost Thaigs'. Alyce had soaked it up, eager to know more. Dwarven history at times felt older than time itself and…Hirral looked so darned adorable chatting away in that deep, booming authoritative voice of his that Alyce had been captivated.

She sighed again, feeling slightly homesick for fresh air, open sky and warm arms. She wondered what the others were doing at home…remembering that her restless husband had mentioned something about visiting his brother – oh, and Rory too – and figured the two men were probably getting completely, utterly, stonking drunk at the Spoiled Princess about now. Or…knowing Ryan, comparing the size of their swords.

"Snrk…_men…_!" she snickered, bending down to pick up a pebble. She hoped he'd arrived at the Tower in time to see Rory off. She wished she'd been able to visit as well. Right now, it felt as though she had been travelling forever. It was just…Raising her arm high; she took aim and hurled the pebble. It missed her intended mark completely and landed in the stream with a watery plunk. _It's just…_her mind wandered…_This has to be done. Things are happening that should not be happening…and it needs to be stopped before they get out of hand._

Lowering her arm, Alyce rubbed tiredly at her eyes. _As for everything else…?_ Yeah. That.

The dreams were back. The same ones she'd had during the Blight. Dreams of a dragon; but not just any dragon…A dragon capable of shape-changing into an immortal witch known as _Flemeth._

-oo-


	6. Stumbling In

-oo-

**Chapter 6 – Stumbling In**

Connor stumbled and would have fallen yet again if not for Greagoir's support and more sure footing. The possessed, tainted mage had been partially draped over Greagoir's shoulder since…Well, the healthier of the two men had lost track of the distance. It had been the same yesterday and the day before; their progress even slower than when they had started out, courtesy of the advancing taint in Connor's body. While much had been written about darkspawn and the fifth Blight, only a little more had covered Blight sickness. Treatment was still as limited now as it had been before King Cailan's troops had tangled with the horde at Ostagar. A merciful, quick death was usually the preferred option. Even now Greagoir wracked his memory for ways to – at the very least – keep Connor comfortable.

The Dalish for example had some kind of treatment to prolong the onset of the taint, but as with all things to do with the taint, it was only temporary and as with all things _Dalish,_ that knowledge was inaccessible to anyone not of the _Elvenhen._ Greagoir only knew it involved a combination of herbs already known by Circle Healers and some very old magic that the Circle had only ever heard rumours of. He only knew because as a young apprentice he'd been fascinated. Once upon a time he'd favoured the Healer's path.

Of course, that had changed when he was of an age to gravitate towards blowing things up into tiny, unrecognisable pieces rather than the gentler forms of magic. His mo…The Senior Enchanter had been his lecturer then. Witnessing Senior Enchanter Alyce render heavy pieces of masonry and metal into melted, pathetic globs had been one of the highlights of his teenage years.

Being unable to match her prowess in near-undefinable levels of destruction however; not so much.

That detail had been at times a source of an embarrassment to him. The other apprentices knew how he and the Senior Enchanter were related. He was expected to be just as good – no, better – than Alyce Amell. When he didn't 'perform' as per those expectations, disappointment followed, then resentment…So he didn't do as well with spells…because he couldn't be bothered, or because he had a parent who would pass him anyway so why try hard? Or…folk assumed that because his other parent was a _Templar _it automatically made him anti-magic; his ability to harness and manipulate mana wouldn't work properly _ever. _

"And they can all go to the Fade_…_" Greagoir muttered under his breath with a sigh. He'd also learned a long time ago that if he spent all his time giving a damn what others thought he'd end up either with an ego the size of Thedas or a quivering, paranoid wreck.

It was why he'd always preferred the company of the library instead of his fellow apprentices. There were quiet corners where the sounds of burning students and ice spells gone wrong were muffled or excluded entirely by tall bookshelves and thick parchment. Where only the whispers of the written, magical word could be heard, forever calling to him with promises of escape and distraction. It attracted the odd, suspicious Templar from time to time (sneaky apprentices were sneaky, apparently) but Greagoir could ignore those as easily as he could ignore an armchair or a footstool. And books were undemanding teachers. They never judged, never asked more of him than he was willing to give and they never censured. He was as unlikely to receive a rap over the knuckles for putting his feet up onto a desk as he was to receive an instructional Fire Ball for bad casting posture from a book.

He'd gotten his fill of Blight stories in the Apprentices' Library and then after his Harrowing, the _proper _library. And…he glanced at Connor's mottled, lesion-riddled countenance. One of the main things he'd learned about those who'd been tainted; they never lasted for long. The longest known 'survivor' had been a dwarven soldier from the Battle of Denerim. The man had lasted a little over a week on pure block-headedness, according to the records, before taint madness led him to take his own life. Most victims succumbed within three days or less.

Connor had been tainted, what…nearly two weeks ago? Slightly more than that?

Perhaps it said something about how much of a hold the demon had on Connor. Perhaps it was because the Enchanter was even more stubborn than a battle-hardened Child of the Stone. The man was certainly determined to find and confront Commander Surana (if the random, muttered curses were any indication). Whatever it was keeping Connor alive and still mostly sane made Greagoir a little nervous. At first the notion of Connor being turned into a Grey Warden seemed as good a 'treatment' as any for the taint. Now, Greagoir wasn't so sure whether it was a good idea. Afterall, a possessed mage with access to the famous Warden prowess of strength and healing?

_Bad idea…bad, bad idea…_But what could he do? Hinder Connor's progress? The demon would be able to tell, wouldn't it? How much of a ghoul was the demon willing to turn its host into before Connor's mortal body had had enough and important bits began falling off? _The smell is bad enough already…_And what all those very informative tomes could not describe accurately was the _odour _of a tainted individual_._ _Andraste's smoking sandals…the smell!_ Every evening when their little troupe stopped to make camp, the Grey Wardens would pointedly place themselves upwind of the tainted mage. And as it fell to Greagoir to ensure the Enchanter kept up during the day, well…_When this is over I'm going to have to burn my clothes. _

_Several times over…_

_And then douse the ashes with acid…_

_And then burn them again._

Angling his head to the side, Greagoir took another deep breath, filling his lungs with slightly less putrid-smelling air. Ahead of them, the two Grey Wardens strode deep in conversation. They were always deep in conversation, Greagoir noticed. Was it a Grey Warden thing he wondered? Or just one of those mysterious girl things? Probably the latter…No, probably _both. _The universe liked to throw interesting things like that his way. Like a mosquito buzzing in an ear after lights out.

Feeling contrary, Greagoir wrinkled his nose and called towards them; "Are we there yet?"

Denny tossed a grin over her shoulder at him. "Not particularly observant are ya?" she called back. She and the Warden Diele exchanged a look. _Ah-ha…another Warden-girly thing…_the taller Warden's expression turned even more sour than usual and she increased her pace, widening the distance between herself and the mages.

"If you're wonderin'," Denny added helpfully. "We been in the Korcari Wilds since yesterday."

"Ah," Greagoir nodded, choking slightly as a puff of rancid, rotting scent wafted his way. "That explains the slightly more damp vermin then."

Denny tapped her nose. "Now you're usin' yer noggin'. Keep up the good work!"

_The Korcari Wilds…_Greagoir grimaced, having felt he'd reached an all time low in observational skills and general intelligence. Just as he'd vowed to pay more attention to their surroundings, their group passed a mound of mossy bone and metal; a single hand with finger still intact, helpfully pointing down their path. _History come to life…_Greagoir thought, hastily correcting the statement in his head as not so much 'life' as a grim reminder of the events that had taken place here well over a decade ago.

Some of the remains were definitely human, others not so much; an immense tusked skull still impaled upon a spike like some grisly trophy still had what looked like a human hand wedged between its broken teeth. Turning his head from the pile after pile of remains, Greagoir spied a wide expanse of bright green. There must have been a town or even a city here once, if the ruins of a domed structure half buried in the grass was any indication. The wind blew; Greagoir gagged and the verdant expanse of green rippled in a very ungrasslike way. Curious, Greagoir checked that the Wardens were still in view then moved a little closer to the 'field'. A moment later a lone water fowl flapped down towards the surface of the space, clearly intending to land…

The surface of green exploded in a frothing mass of snapping teeth and scales. A spray of blood and feathers and the bird was no more, whatever beast dwelled beneath the now deceptively tranquil swamp returned to its depths.

_Note to self…_Greagoir inched backwards towards rockier ground. _Swamps are not bath friendly._

"Whoa!" Denny whistled, jogging back to join him. "A _Drop Croc!" _She twinkled at Greagoir. "You hardly ever see those. You should be honoured. They're _rare…_"

"I think I'm just happy feeling grateful, thanks," Greagoir told her.

"Eh, I hear they're good eatin'," she added, twinkling some more.

"Or they're just good _at _eating?" Greagoir said sourly.

"Oh ha ha!" Denny slapped her thigh in appreciation. "You're a funny man. Have I told you you're a funny man?"

"Frequently…" Greagoir grumbled, rolling his eyes. If he hadn't figured out by now that the smaller of the Grey Wardens enjoyed making fun of him even more than the elven Warden appeared to despise him, then he had just confirmed that he truly was as thick as a Tower wall. Or incredibly good natured. _What are the chances I can push for the second one?_

"Ah…don't take it so bad, twinkle-toes," Denny smiled at him. "We'll be at-"

"HALT! In the name of Her Eminence and all that is…" The gasp that followed was punctuated by a screech of: "_Apostate!_"

In his surprise, Greagoir dropped Connor, the man falling bonelessly to the swampy ground with a wet thud. The smile that had begun to form on Greagoir's face froze mid-curve. Reflexively, he raised his hands. "Now, see here-"

"_Maleficar!" _came the second screech. This was accompanied by a longsword being drawn and point held to his chest. Greagoir sighed. "_Apostate!_" the Templar shouted again, causing Greagoir to attempt calming motions with his raised hands.

"I think you already said that-"

"Do not move or I shall strike you where you stand, _Maleficar…!_"

Greagoir frowned. "You always make a habit out of repeating yourself, Miffy?" he asked, bending forward. He stopped in time from patting her on the head. Even if he hadn't recognised the voice behind the heavy helm, there was the fact that _this _particular Templar did not quite fill her armour as the average Soldier of Andraste did. And…_Maker's nut, _what was _she _of all people doing out here in the middle of nowhere anyway?

"Do not speak, _Apostate!"_ the Templar threatened, pushing the sword point a little more firmly into his gut.

Greagoir rolled his eyes. "Again with the repetition," he sighed. "And anyway…" he added because he was starting to get really annoyed. They were close to the Grey Warden outpost and they get accosted by Templars _now_? The universe did really hate him, didn't it?

Pushing the longsword aside with his hand, Greagoir stepped forward. Throwing caution, reservation and any other sense of self-preservation he'd ever owned to the wind, he gave the top of the Templar's helm a smart rap with his knuckles. "Aren't you a little short to be a Templar?" he asked.

In answer, sparks exploded in his vision followed by a sharp, unexpected and very unwelcome pain in his groin. Greagoir's knees helpfully folded so he could curl up into a foetal position. It was more comfortable that way. "Argh!" he cursed through clenched teeth. "You little…!" This time his vision flashed red and black before it and his consciousness abandoned him entirely.

-oo-

With a sweep of his hand, the table was cleared of tankards, plates and the leftovers from the morning meal. The perpetrator of such a wanton act of messiness received a disapproving arch of an eyebrow from the other person in the room. Nevertheless, he continued with his intent to utilise all of the table space, unfolding a map of well-worn vellum, while the owner of the eyebrow diligently went about picking up every tankard, cup and bread rind from the floor.

"You're far too domesticated, oh Captain my Captain…" the Cousland grumbled, trying not to follow the older man's movements about the room and failing. "Leave that for the servants, for the Maker's sake."

"Regardless…" Ser Ryan straightened plate in hand. "Such untidiness does not reflect well upon us."

"Pft," Cousland waved a dismissive hand. "You're so…_common._"

Captain Tremayne bowed. "I thank you for the compliment, my lord."

"Prat."

"Brat."

Cousland waggled a finger at his companion. "I'm too old to be called a brat."

The eyebrow was raised again, this time implying that statement to be applicable as long as there the person applying it was older than the accused. "As you say, my lord."

Cousland sighed. "I hate it when you do that."

Dining implements and accoutrements piled neatly to the side, Ser Ryan joined the younger man at the table. He too perused the map; an elderly edition and one he recognised from the reclamation of Highever during the Blight. There had been additions made over the years since; newer lines; redrawn borders showing a redistribution of lands…and large areas marked with the symbol of two crossed bones. _Blight lands._ King Bryce I had had to review the borders of Ferelden's Arlings and Teyrnirs out of necessity. While Arls and Teyrns could be reappointed, finding them arable land to administer after a Blight was not as simple or easy.

Gwaren for example, lying to the south, had been left almost untouched by the darkspawn, leaving some to believe that the late Teyrn and King's General had made a convenient agreement with the darkspawn. Dragon's Peak on the other hand was now only a notation; a marker of what used to exist, along with patches along the Waking Sea, Amaranthine…scars from a war that almost destroyed all of Ferelden.

Ryan knew the re-marked borders well. He'd accompanied the princes across and through them often enough. It paid to know where the Blight Lands were without constantly having to refer to a map, even if he knew quite well that the borders of the Blight Lands were in a constant state of flux. All it took was a single, tainted beast to wander onto untainted land and in no time at all, entire fields of crops would need to be destroyed or risk having the taint spread even further. The Archdemon might be gone, but Fereldans still battled the Blight.

"This town here…" Cousland jabbed a finger at a point on the map slightly west of the northernmost point of Lake Calenhad. "Littlehurst," he read. "I've only passed through there, but as far as I can recall, we should be able to provision ourselves there for The Frostbacks." He traced an invisible line westward. "Once we have what we need, we can make for Gherlen's Pass."

Ryan peered at the map. "Not Jader, my lord? It's a larger city."

"It's also too close to Highever," Cousland snorted. "And I would not go within _any _distance of Highever's borders if I could help it. Not while my mother is in matchmaking mode." Without looking up from the map, he added; "The road from Littlehurst is not as well used, but that may work in our favour. The only other route is to backtrack south around Lake Calenhad…"

Ryan shook his head. "That would add weeks to our journey."

"Agreed," Cousland acknowledged with a curt nod. "And before you ask, no I haven't considered marriage as a way to prevent my mother from interfering in my life. Even if there _was _someone I was inclined to wake up to every morning…" He slid sneaky glance towards his Captain. "Remember, it was _you_ who disobliged me by marrying the only woman I would have been inclined to consider matrimony with_, _so under the circumstances, you owe it me to help keep me footloose and fancy free."

"Instead of leg-shackled and free of fancy, my lord?" Ryan asked with another lift of his eyebrow. "That, I must inform you, is as logical as a ferret on your head," Ser Ryan snorted.

Cousland frowned. "I don't have a ferret on my head."

"Exactly." Ser Ryan's attention drifted southwards on the map, towards a string of pale blue blobs marking the Hinterlands…_Chasind _country. Some of the Chasind had fled northwards. Most had escaped even more deeply into the unmarked territories; to land more wild and untamed than themselves.

"Travel across the Hinterlands at this time of the year is dangerous," he murmured to himself, though not softly enough for him not to be heard. "I hope Greagoir did not attempt it."

"Do you still hope to come across him?" Cousland asked, concerned that his Captain was concerned. While it was not unlike the man to worry in general, there was something Ser Ryan was not telling him. Cousland knew mages operating outside the Circle were frowned upon. Mages _escaped _from the Circle were even less of a laughing matter. Especially since many of them were quite frequently suspected of darker magic. Ryan had never spoken of it and Cousland had never asked. Chantry business was Chantry business and while it was part of his duties to play nice with the Grand Cleric and her minions, Aidan had no interest beyond that. What he did know however – of the little time he'd spent with young Greagoir – was that the boy was smart and far, far too well brought up to make a decision that would place others or himself at peril.

He was also damn good with a sword. If he hadn't shown signs of magic, he would have been squired to one of the knights in the Highever Guard at the earliest opportunity.

Beside Cousland, Ser Ryan shrugged. "As we discussed before," he sighed, "Greagoir could have ended up anywhere. Ferelden is a big country. There are any number of places he could be right now." _If he is still alive…_the more practical part of Ser Ryan added morosely.

"I heard…The Chantry have ways of…finding mages…?" Cousland began, receiving only a nod from his Captain.

_Yes, _Ryan sighed inwardly. _There are any number of places Greagoir could be and few reliable ways he can be found. _One of those methods involved lyrium and Greagoir's phylactery; neither of which were an option to him. It had been years since he'd had any contact with lyrium and knowing that he was now at the same age his own father had been when he'd started to show signs of lyrium poisoning made Ryan even more wary of the stuff. As for Greagoir's phylactery…He doubted very much whether the Denerim Chantry would release _that _to him.

No, the best plan would be to locate Alyce. She was familiar with the _other _way; a method only accessible to another mage, though it was not as efficient or as…clean as the one the Chantry preferred: _Fade Walking. _

Ser Ryan had witnessed the phenomena only a couple of times in his life and both of them had involved his mage wife. It was not common or a practice that was encouraged by the Circle. Mages could easily lose themselves in the Fade; become more susceptible to possession. Even if a mage avoided possession, detached from the passing of time outside the Fade, they might return to find their bodies no longer lived.

"Attemping to contact the Chantry ourselves would be seen as interference in Chantry business," Ser Ryan reminded the younger man.

"Well then…" With a soft grunt, Aidan Cousland pushed away from the table. "Orzammar it is…and not storming the gates of the Grand Cleric's marble towers as I'd hoped. Pity."

Ser Ryan had not been listening; his gaze – and mind – wandering over the map still. They would not be going to Jader, but the town Cousland proposed was close enough that some of Jader's Grey Wardens might be found there. At the least, he should be able to send a message from Littlehurst to the Senior Warden. Alyce would certainly expect him to.

Forcing his attention away and back to his employer, Ser Ryan faced Aidan Cousland. "We will be leaving immediately, my lord?"

"Immediately?" Cousland blinked, the hint of jest twinkling in the corners of his very blue eyes. "No. I thought we'd first head over to Amaranthine, board a ship to Kirkwall, play pirate for a few years then head up to the Anderfels to go searching for Griffons…" He rolled his eyes at Ser Ryan's cardboard expression. "I mean honestly Captain, did you _really _have to ask?"

-oo-

She was wrong. There _was_ greenery down here that neither moved, floated or was as slippery as custard. In fact surprisingly, there was an entire _forest _down here; trees and leafy shrubs and tapestries of tiny-leaved creepers bearing scented flowers. Alyce picked her way over crumbled masonry to find her feet sinking into thick carpets of tufty mosses. The entire area smelled earthy and _outside. _If the space high above her wasn't composed of rock, she could very easily imagine she was outside and not still underground.

She paused at a wall, rifling through her waist pouch for her notebook, charcoal and knife. Senior Enchanter Ines would not forgive her if she found out there was such plant life down here and she didn't stop to take either notes or collect specimens, though she did hope that nothing she collected would actually turn out to be poisonous or react badly with the surface air and turn into something vile and wicked and…Alyce gave herself a shake. Those dreams she'd been having about Flemeth were starting to make her morbid again.

Well…even more morbid than usual.

"Ah…I've see you've found some Strangle Weed…"

Alyce jumped. So intent on cutting an appropriately-sized specimen from the wall had she been that she had not heard the Legion of the Dead Commander approach from behind. She fumbled her knife and the plant; cutting her finger in the process. Pinching the weed between the nails of forefinger and thumb, she dangled it warily over her notebook.

"Strangle weed?" she echoed faintly.

"Oh, huh. A single seed can form a wall of noxious green in a week," Commander Hirral told her cheerfully.

"And…they call this…'strangle'…why?" Alyce felt compelled to ask.

"Ah well that is," Hirral tapped the side of his rather commodious nose; the hairs of which had been cultivated and braided into his even more impressively-maintained moustache. Oddly, the man did not sport a beard…perhaps because that much facial hair would have been overkill, even for a dwarf. "Strangle weed have these little suckers that have a way of finding gaps and fissures in the stone," Hirral explained. Alyce nodded. "S'how they look for water you see." Alyce nodded again. "And when they find water…_POOF! _They grow even more, sending out more suckers."

Alyce frowned, uncertain whether the 'strangle' part would actually ever arrive.

"People have been known to wake up, covered in the stuff…grows over them when they're sleeping…looking for water…" Hirral's grin grew wider; a sure sign that he was enjoying stringing this 'little' explanation along. He leaned in closer.

"People are full of water, dontcha know."

Alyce stared, well aware it was rude. "Uh…"

Hirral inclined his head. "And those suckers are pretty efficient at finding…_cracks._ Even in people."

The full realisation of this was beginning to dawn slowly on Alyce, though she was having trouble accepting it.

"Course," Hirral said, plucking the piece of vine from her fingers and nibbling on the end with his teeth. "Good eatin'. Just have to cook it properly," he added helpfully. "Gotta make sure it's completely dead. A single _live _bit can strangle a person inside out in a day. Makes visitin' the lav a bit of a nasty surprise, I can tell you."

Alyce's gaze slid suspiciously towards the wall of green, then just as suspiciously back to the grinning dwarf Commander. "I'm…not too sure I believe you."

"Eh," He gave her arm a brisk pat, sending her sideways. "Ignore me at your peril, Mistress Mage…Ignore me at your peril…Anyways…"

"Anyways?" Alyce repeated weakly, wondering what other marvellous gem of information she would discover today.

"We seem to be a bit uh…lost."

"Eh?"

Hirral nodded acknowledgement. "Yeah. Turns out we've never been here before."

Alyce truly stared now. "_Eh?_"

Hirral looked about thoughtfully. He tapped the weed-covered wall like a long lost old friend. "Thought this might be Cadash Thaig. Turns out to be somewhat elvish. Think we might have taken a wrong turn back at that rockfall…and then maybe got turned around a bit trying to avoid that lava flow. I swear by the stone they weren't here the last time, but never mind we-"

"But dwarves _never _get lost underground!" Alyce interrupted with a cry.

"Now Mistress Mage…" Hirral waggled a scolding finger at her. "No need to be like that now. S'not like every dwarf gets _imprinted _with a sodding map of the entire Deep Roads at birth…well some of 'em do, but they get to be Paragons. Me, I'm just a dead 'un and-"

Alyce had just sunk her forehead into her hand when another cry rang out beyond a stand of unruly, underground hedge. Goylan came running down the path towards them, axe drawn and dripping with gore. "Commander!" he yelled. "Darksp-" He didn't get to finish. A Hurlock crashed out of the greenery behind him, blood-smattered pike descending…Alyce raised her hand, just as more darkspawn erupted through the ground at their feet…incinerated in moments as the fireball encircled each in a flash of deadly white flame. She paused to bend over the fallen dwarf, to find her arm being pulled along.

"Leave him!" Hirral ordered. "The stone has him now! The others, quickly!"

They followed the sound of battle; easy enough to do in the limited confines of the ruins.

"Up there!" Alyce followed the direction of the Commander's finger, vaulting up a flight of crumbling steps as the Legion of Dead Commander sprang into the centre of genlocks, scattering and dismembering them. On higher ground, Alyce lost no time, casting paralysis glyphs on injured Legion soldiers, peppering them with powerful healing spells while hurling boulders of conjured ice, fire and electricity into the darkspawn below. And then…a mighty roar behind her…An ogre stepped towards her, sending the structure they both stood on collapsing completely into the darkspawn below.

Pelted with rock and gravel, Alyce scrambled for escape – too late – the ogre seized her foot and swung her upside down…then abruptly dropped her when it found its head suddenly missing. A spray of heated, stinking darkspawn blood spattered her clothes. Alyce winced and ducked, hastily rolling out of the way as the ogre toppled to the broken ground beside her.

"Why…in Thedas…" said a new voice. "Would a mage – of all people – be doing _here, _I wonder?"

Alyce looked up. Through the smoke and dust emerged a slender figure in brown leathers. Pale green eyes regarded her curiously at first, then extended a hand. "And with a contingent of Legion of the Dead at that?" Alyce couldn't quite place the accent, though she took the proffered hand. Rising to her feet, she came face to face with the speaker; a woman roughly the same age as she, possibly a couple years younger, with hair of such a deep red it was almost black. When she smiled, twin dimples made her look younger. Alyce squashed very firmly the impulse to give the woman a pat on the head.

There was no mistaking the stamped emblem on the woman's chest piece…

_Grey Warden._

-oo-


	7. Greetings and Meetings

-oo-

**Chapter 7 – Greetings and Meetings**

"I agree with the Grey Warden. A mage…on her own; unsupervised and in the Deep Roads no less, is a most _irregular _set of circumstances."

Alyce tore her attention from the dead Legion soldiers dotting the ground to face the speaker; a rather stocky individual of slightly-under-average height with pepper-black hair and hooded, dark eyes. The dust had yet to settle over the battle, she'd barely stepped out of the pool of ogre blood and her head was still buzzing with the lingering after effects of her spell casting. Given all the above, she was not particularly in the mood for a pop-quiz. She surveyed the individual before her, much as she would an interesting specimen she'd just scraped off a rock; like the Strangle Weed earlier. She'd opened her mouth to speak, pausing when she noticed the man wore Chantry garb, though it was in a far more martial style than she normally associated with followers of The Prophet. Few brothers or sisters of the cloth were this heavily armoured or armed.

In fact, the only people she knew that bore the Maker's symbol on their armour this prominently were _Templars. _

This man was no Templar.

"I didn't say it was irregular." The Grey Warden who'd despatched the ogre stepped between Alyce and the dark-haired man, bristling with…indignation was it? Annoyance? The Warden's tone of voice indicated the two had a history in disagreement and had clashed many times before. It made Alyce wish that she'd been able to bring Ryan along. Not only would it have been far more fun, but she could have used his people skills. She was only here to find _stuff_, not _talk _to people, being quite sure that if the First Enchanter had anticipated encounters such as these, then he would have chosen someone who liked doing this sort of thing.

Unless…Alyce thought sourly…Torrin _did _know something just like this would happen and he thought it would be amusing to make her squirm.

_Typical._

"I only asked 'why' _Seeker_," the Grey Warden jabbed a finger at the man. "And by the way, in case you're wondering, it was a _rhetorical _question and quite frankly nothing to do with you."

Alyce's eyebrows drew downward. _Did the Warden just say…'Seeker'?_ Why did that sound familiar? _Chantry…Seeker…_Brushing her hair over her ears; Alyce thought hard. She knew the word. It was a title, wasn't it? She couldn't however, remember any detail other than it had been mentioned by someone important once. Ryan? No…Torrin perhaps? That did not feel familiar either. As she wracked her brain for the memory, the Grey Warden and 'Seeker' continued to argue; the Warden becoming more irritated and flustered, the Seeker more shuttered and cool.

After a short while the Seeker rolled his eyes. "If the mage's presence here has been sanctioned by the appropriate authorities," he waved a bored hand, "then she has nothing to fear from me." Angling himself, he peered around the Grey Warden at Alyce. _Man has a big nose, _she thought as an aside. _And you know what they say about men with big noses…_

"Has she?"

_They like to stick it in places they don't belong._

Alyce lifted her chin, screwing up her mouth in thought. She'd been about to respond when the Grey Warden once again positioned herself squarely between the two. As the Seeker was shorter than either woman it meant his expression was obscured by the Warden. Personally, Alyce preferred to keep the Seeker in plain view. She wanted to be able to gauge her chances of escaping these characters with as little fuss as possible and right now the Warden wasn't helping.

"The _mage _has a name, I'm sure!" the Grey Warden snapped. She spun to face Alyce, pale green eyes flashing in annoyance. When she tossed her head Alyce was reminded of one of Lord Aidan's horses; young, spirited and defiant in their demand for freedom.

"As this…_gentleman _has failed to offer the appropriate courtesy," she sniffed, "I will endeavour to make amends; on behalf of myself and my men." In saying so, the Warden extended her hand. "Annike Leuwen," she stated. "My apologies for not introducing myself earlier…" The Warden's eyes alighted on Alyce's non-standard Circle robes. "Enchanter…?"

Alyce smiled; or it was a close approximation to a smile considering she didn't feel much like smiling this close to the mangled remains of a stinking ogre and people she'd broken fast with just this very morning. She briefly considered encasing both the Warden and the Seeker in a prison of ice and running away very fast…dismissing the idea just as quickly. She might forget the correct fork to eat fish with or consistently fail Political Seating Arrangements 101, but she did know getting on the bad side of the Order of the Grey _and _the Chantry had the potential to turn out to be a life shortening exercise.

_I think I'd prefer to kiss darkspawn, quite frankly…_

Patting the Warden and the Seeker companionably on the arm felt like she was back in the Tower, supervising the new apprentices. She sighed inwardly. "Alyce Amell," she stated to both. "Senior Enchanter Amell."

"Senior Enchanter?" the Seeker raised his caterpillar thick eyebrows and beneath his equally thick moustache, his lips twitched. "And…Amell. The name is familiar to me."

Alyce shrugged. "Amells…" she sighed. "We're all over Thedas. Breed like bloody rabbits."

The Seeker smiled a slow, reptilian smile that made Alyce reconsider the ice prison. "Magical rabbits," he added with a knowing nod.

"Well…never met a magic rabbit," Alyce tossed off casually. "They the same kind you pull out of hats?"

"Ah ha," the Seeker said. "Amusing."

"Not for the rabbit, apparently," Alyce told him. "You try being pulled out of a hat sometime and see how you like it, eh?"

Clearly feeling left out of the conversation, the Grey Warden Anike coughed softly. "As he appears to have forgotten, the sarcastic gentleman wearing the Maker's symbol is Giles Moreau," she informed Alyce. "A Chantry Seeker."

"Ah," Alyce murmured politely. "You're seeking the Chantry eh? Not many of those in the Deep Roads." She pointed upwards. "Back on the surface now, that's different. Can't swing a cat without hitting one. Not that I would swing a cat…bit dangerous I hear. For the cat as well as the swinger. Have you ever been mauled by a kitty? Darn things get those hooky claws right under your skin – never make the mistake of pulling them out – rip your skin right out. In chunks."

The Seeker frowned at her. "And…they let you out on your own, Senior Enchanter? I'm not sure that is entirely wise."

"Ah ha ha ha," Alyce smacked the Seeker on the arm; much harder this time. "Good one. You sound like the First Enchanter."

"Who is…?" the Seeker enquired a little too innocently.

"Back at the Tower…Or…buying ale somewhere." Alyce cast her gaze ceiling-wards. "This being the Annual Ale Brewers and Barrel Throwing Convention and Gasbagging time of the year." She leaned closer to the Seeker. "You ever throw a barrel, Ser Giles? You look like a man who'd enjoy chucking a barrel or two. Even manage to keep the dwarf in it, I'll wager."

The Seeker crossed his arms tightly over his barrel-like chest and gave her a keen, penetrating look. "I'll see I'll have to watch you carefully…Senior Enchanter."

Alyce sighed. _Watch me? Uh-huh. Good luck with that._ Out loud however, she told him; "If you must know, I'm here on official Circle business."

"And you can prove that?" the Seeker pounced on her words.

"No…" Alyce replied with a roll of her eyes. "But I can recite all thirty-seven verses of _The Tainted Vole Can Never Be Buggered At All._"

"Meaning, _Seeker…_" the Grey Warden chimed in, "_You _can go and bugg-"

"_Weeeell! _Isn't this nice!" Alyce interrupted before the two of them could start trading blows again…not that she had been helping to keep things calm herself…"Look at the three of us…surrounded by putrefying darkspawn and dead Legion of the – uh – already dead and we're all getting on so _famously! _Isn't it nice?" Alyce moved in closer, the better to loom over the Seeker who stood at eye-level with the very low neckline of her silverite mage armour. Donning the armour after so many years wearing the robes of Senior Enchanter had been like meeting a very old, dear friend after a long absence; involving tears, adjustments and pretending the years had been kind to each other.

At least she'd had to have the armour taken _in, _not let out, though Alyce wasn't too sure turning into even more of a bean pole was any improvement over being bean poleish in the first instance. _However, _the silverite did make her look larger, more imposing; taller and she was able to loom over Giles Moreau quite effectively; a strategy she'd used many a time with recalcitrant apprentices.

Recalcitrant apprentices however – unlike the Seeker – did not try to look down her robes.

The distraction came in the form of the Legion of the Dead Commander, seeking her help with the injured. The Grey Warden joined them, offering them the services of their own mage. The ever gracious Hirral accepted. His troops were not the only ones who had been injured and while he was accustomed to simply applying bandages and moving on, his practical side recognised the value of healing by magic. Even those as resistant to magic as dwarves. The party of three broke up though Alyce could _feel _the Seeker track her movements as she and the Grey Warden healer, a quiet elven mage by the name of Leon, worked their way among the injured.

She had not expected to meet Grey Wardens here, not so close to her objective. No, that wasn't quite correct. She _hoped_ not to meet Grey Wardens here. This was the Deep Roads after all. Home of the darkspawn. Wherever there were darkspawn, one could always find a Grey Warden or two. Meeting with them was a complication she preferred not to have to deal with, though it might have easily been passed off as pure coincidence if it had been just _them_.

Meeting one in the presence of a Chantry representative?

_That _was the universe telling her that not only was it a complete and utter bastard…but that she might be on the right trail after all.

-oo-

_Ugh…_His head felt like it had been trampled under several night soil carts. He'd only ever been the recipient of a Holy Smite once and that had been a practice shot; one of the Templar trainees who thought it would be fun to practice on an actual apprentice, not a training dummy. Greagoir knew the sensation of recovering from one of those well, though it had not been this severe and…_Damn_!

He bolted upright, the events leading up to this point racing around his brain then coming to a shuddering halt just behind the front of his skull. His vision swam in the darkened room, feeling hands push him gently back down.

"Easy…She hit you pretty hard there. Give yourself time."

Greagoir blinked rapidly, trying to clear the last of the sleep fog. Turning his head turned his stomach too, but it gave him a clear view of the room…and its occupant.

"Maker…" he rasped. "It's _you…_"

The speaker waved a friendly hand. "Surprise!"

Greagoir squeezed his eyes closed. The room he'd been placed in had been darkened; the curtains drawn, though he hadn't noticed any light peeking through so it may be a tad later in the day than he'd like. A flame burned on a table on the other side of his narrow cot; a piece of furniture built for someone smaller and thinner as his feet hung off the end of it.

"And…" Greagoir added, lifting a hand and knuckling his eyes. "Just so you know: time is something I don't have right now."

"I might argue that you do," the speaker said good-naturedly.

Greagoir used the same hand to slap his forehead. "Argh!" he groaned. "Connor!" _Damn it, what is the spell you use to get rid of headaches…?_ "What the Fade…he was-"

"Tainted," the speaker acknowledged. "Yes. I know."

"And?" Greagoir demanded, attempting to rise again. "What happened? Where is he? And yes I know I'm asking a lot of questions about a person I don't even like but there are…look he's…Andraste's bootlaces!" He managed to prop himself up on his elbows. "He was going to try to be made a Grey Warden. Did he?"

The speaker sat back, shoulders hunching a little. "Ah…about that…"

"You…put him through…?" Greagoir said slowly, grimacing. _Please tell me he isn't a Grey Warden._

"Oh, does that make you unhappy? And here I thought the two of you were-"

"No!" Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, Greagoir bent over double hastily, clutching at his pounding head. "Why does everyone think that the two of us are in some kind of intimate relationship?" He lifted his head briefly to aim an accusatory glare at the older man. "Even you."

"Oh well, I _was _going to say 'friends' but…_are_ you?"

"No!"

The other man threw up his hands, mouth twitching. "Well then."

Thumping the cot on either side of him in frustration, Greagoir growled, "_Uncle Alistair…!_"

With a grin, the other man held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, I get it. You're in no mood for jesting."

Greagoir's head dropped again. "You have _no _idea. This whole thing is…this whole thing is a mess."

"So you kept saying in your sleep," was the dry response. Greagoir lifted his head. He sighed. He really ought to stop saying that, but how could he stop when it was still oh so true? How did someone get out of a hole like this when the bottom kept disappearing from beneath his feet and the walls kept collapsing? Giving his temples a final rub, he looked up again.

"That's because it is…" He peered about the darkened room, to find that it wasn't a room at all, but the inside of a tent. What he thought had been a candle burning on a bedside table was actually a lamp hanging from the tent ceiling; low enough to read by, but high enough not to constantly walk into. There were a couple of deep furs spread on the ground and in the corner there was a small writing table; the contents of the space giving the impression this structure was intended to be here for some time and therefore should provide some comforts of a stationary home.

The only chair in the room was more of a stool really; foldable with a stretched canvas in between for a seat and currently occupied by a man Greagoir had known most of his life as 'uncle'; his godfather…a Grey Warden known as Alistair and one of the Heroes of Ferelden. He frowned. Coincidence again? _Ferelden is smaller than I thought it would be…_

His godfather patted him soothingly on the shoulder and half rose. "You should rest." He suggested with a lift of his eyebrows. "Ser Myfanwy – as I mentioned earlier – hit you pretty hard. I'd be surprised if your headache didn't persist for the next day or two."

Greagoir's mouth twisted in distaste. "Ser Myfanwy…that's the stupidest thing I've ever…How in Thedas someone like Myf got accepted into the order I'll never know."

"Well…" Alistair mused, straightening. "Being a third generation Templar probably helped and what she lacks in stature she certainly makes up for in enthusiasm."

The look Greagoir gave his godfather was so sour, the other man feinted a shudder. Though he didn't think it possible, it provoked an even more unimpressed expression in return. Running a hand through his hair, Alistair sighed. "Look, I know you have a lot of questions, but you should really rest. Just know that…well. There isn't a lot you can do right now and…" He cast a look towards the tent flap then lowered his voice. "This is neither the time nor the place for the kind of discussion I know you're looking for. Later, I promise we'll talk later." Having said that, Warden Alistair turned and walked the short distance to the exit.

"Uncle Alistair."

The Grey Warden paused; looking over his shoulder at the haggard young man perched uncomfortably on the edge of his cot. Maker, the boy had _grown. _How old was he now? Twenty? Twenty one? About the same age as he had been when he and Neria Surana had fought the Blight together he supposed; the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Greagoir's hair was darker with a tendency to the unruly and his eyes were a definite brown but…it surprised him how much he could look at Greagoir Tremayne and see…himself there. It was one of the reasons why his visits had become more infrequent as Greagoir had grown into teenage hood. He didn't want people drawing uncomfortable – or inevitable - conclusions. Quite apart from the fact that few mage apprentices received visits from Grey Wardens, Greagoir had his own family. A mother, father, grandparents…

A world that – as time went by – he fit into less and less. A point that was both a relief as well as heartbreaking to him.

"Didn't I say 'rest'?" Alistair reminded the younger man.

"I know," Greagoir stated simply. "About…everything."

Alistair's mouth crooked at one corner. "Lucky you."

"No, I meant about-"

"_Later,_ Greagoir," Alistair interrupted before Greagoir said something that might be overhead by people who shouldn't hear these sorts of things. "Rest. Then we'll talk."

"Urgh…" Greagoir gripped the edges of the cot hard, attempting to lever himself off, finding his legs too weak to hold him. _What the Fade did that woman hit me with? That was no ordinary Holy Smite._ "And Connor?" he persisted.

The half-smile from Alistair's face disappeared completely and there was a definite pause before he spoke again, addressing the tent flaps instead of Greagoir.

"Let's just say," he sighed, "for the time being, that he…lives."

-oo-

When next Greagoir woke, the sun had risen, illuminating the canvas and throwing soft shadows across the furs on the ground. The headache had gone and he felt more rested than he had since leaving the Tower. _How long have I been asleep? _He'd been so determined to catch only a couple more hours of rest then get up and pursue his godfather to a place where he _would _talk with him. _I mean, how long has it been since I've seen the man? Five…six years? _Warden – no, _Senior Warden _- Alistair looked much the same; or at least appeared to. There was a bit more beard now, more bulk, but after all these years his godfather still sported the same Chantry-boy haircut, still favoured the same kind of heavy plate armour and mail that made him look like a Chantry collection box.

Snickering at his humorous comparison, Greagoir sat up. Someone had left a skin of water hanging from the cot, along with a bowl of something still warm and some thick hunks of bread. He ate and drank, feeling much better for it, reserving a little of the water from the skin to wash his face and hands. He couldn't imagine what he looked like; it had been days since he'd been able to shave or wash properly and growing up in the Tower he'd gotten used to regular washing and dirt-free clothes. It would be good to be – relatively speaking – clean again.

Fed, washed and feeling much more human, Greagoir headed for the exit, bumping into a little wall of metal as he emerged.

Bright sunshine glinted off highly polished armour, obscuring the disapproving scowl that greeted him. He shaded his eyes, but he didn't need to see to recognise the growling noise that accompanied the aggressive stance.

"Myf…" he began.

"You stink, apostate!"

Hooking his thumbs into his belt, Greagoir returned the glare with a bland look of his own. _Ser _Myfanwy might be pint-sized, unlike her taller, more graceful, elegantly beautiful older sister, but she _did _have a great big sword strapped to her back and an arsenal of anti-mage 'spells' she was all too happy to dispense. Instead of returning the insult with one of his own, he shuffled surreptitiously sideways and peered up at the pale blue sky above.

"How is my aunt?" he asked politely.

"Hmph," was the response he received. He shook his head. Admittedly, if he had not shown signs of magic, he might have considered joining the Order himself…_as a last resort…! Sheesh._

"Well," he said anyway. "I am glad to hear she is in good health…and spirits too, I hope?"

"…"

"Ah well, good to hear, good to hear," he nodded approvingly. Casting her a look sideways, he added; "Uncle Bryant sends his love," _I'm sure. _"As does father." _Ah ha! That got a reaction! _Myf had always been a bit of a softie around the Captain. Knight Commander Bryant was a naturally easy person to talk to, but his rank and his removal to the Tower of Magi had kept him from regular meetings with his surviving family and while he was a regular correspondent, he never quite bonded with his two nieces the way Captain Ryan – his father – had. Well…being the Cousland's Guard Captain and Prince Aidan's right hand man kept him in Highever for the most part, even if princely duties – and lordly whimsy - had him travelling frequently from home.

_Home…What I'd give right now for one of Serenna's plum pies…with a blazing fire tickling our toes and Grammy singing softly in Nevarran in her old rocking chair…_Why that particular image came to mind, Greagoir did not know. Myfanwy's presence perhaps? This nostalgia was unlike him, to say the least.

"Anyway…" was his next attempt at conversation when the welcome sight of Senior Warden Alistair, accompanied by Diele and Denny, came into view. Denny waved; a friendly wiggle of her bare fingers that he returned. Diele on the other hand merely scowled at him, mirroring Ser Myfanwy's expression. Then he caught the Senior Warden's face and the grin fell away. Greagoir could not recall ever seeing his godfather looking this grim before.

The three Grey Wardens halted a few steps from them, Diele pointedly looking away while Denny wiggled her eyebrows at Greagoir in some kind of silent offering of information.

It felt like a warning.

"You've come for the apostate?" Ser Myfanwy's chin lifted defiantly as the words left her mouth like poison.

"Yes," Alistair replied coolly, snapping Greagoir's attention to the older Warden. _Grim…and…_he wasn't that thick. He knew angry when he saw and heard it.

"The Chantry _will _hear about this!" Ser Myfanwy growled, looking thoroughly put out.

"Yes, well," Alistair snapped back. "This isn't the first time the Grey Wardens have conscripted a mage, nor will it be the last."

"Well," Myfanwy's hands made squeaking noises at her sides as they clenched in anger. "Better get on with-"

"Wait. _What?_" Greagoir's brain finally registered the meaning behind the dialogue. _Conscription?_ Connor hadn't been conscripted into the Grey Wardens, had he? He'd volunteered. The Grey Wardens _had _to consider him. Unless of course _Ser _Myfanwy had gotten to them first and the Senior Warden had had to…but of course…Connor wasn't the only apostate in the area. There were…_two._

_Why do I get the impression they're discussing me?_

When the Senior Warden grasped his arm and pulled him to his side, Greagoir grimaced. _They're discussing me, aren't they?_

"Just…" Alistair began, giving the younger man's arm another tug. "Come on. The sooner we get this over and done with, the better." He about-turned, half-dragging Greagoir with him. Jangling footsteps behind only made the Senior Warden hasten his pace.

"I will witness this ritual of yours!" Myfanwy called out.

"No you won't!" Alistair flung over his shoulder.

"But this is…!"

Alistair spun, bringing the entire party to a juddering halt. Myfanwy's armour rattled as she too came to an abrupt stop, her chest heaving in consternation and her mouth drawn into a thin line of disapproval. Senior Warden Alistair towered over her but she was undeterred, facing him squarely. The years of Alistair's experience in battle might weigh heavily against her, but the might of the Maker was at her side.

"I have invoked the Rite of Conscription," Alistair reminded her, back teeth grinding. "This mage is no longer your concern!"

Greagoir winced. _Darn. It is about me…_

_Wait. It's about me?_

_It's about me!_

He raised his hand. "Um…"

"And under the Rite of Conscription, this mage," Alistair jabbed a thumb towards Greagoir, narrowly missing his nose, "now comes under the protection of the Order of the Grey, whether you like it or not!"

Pursing her lips, Ser Myfanwy stepped closer, though having to tilt her head upwards to meet the Senior Warden's gaze ruined the picture of outraged Chantry Warrior somewhat. "I do not."

"Well that's just too bad, isn't it," Alistair snapped back sarcastically.

"Um…" Greagoir raised his hand higher. It only served to remind the Senior Warden of his task. Seizing the young mage's arm once more, Alistair propelled him forward. "A question…if I may?" Greagoir stumbled, but managed not to trip over his own feet.

"Speak!" Alistair barked.

"I'm to…become a Grey Warden…too?'

"Yes!" the Senior Warden replied, not looking at him. _Purposely _not looking at him, Greagoir thought.

"I see…" Greagoir murmured, thanking everyone's very lucky stars that Senior Enchanter Alyce was not here or else there would be dead people…or parts of dead people strewn about the landscape and Ser Myfanwy would be bent over someone's knee getting a damned good spanking because…Hadn't the Senior Enchanter warned him over and over again that the Order of the Grey was out of bounds for him as a career choice? There was the whole…Archdemon connection thingie for a start, along with the whole…_old god…Gods and bazooks! _Greagoir's eyes widened at the thought that suddenly occurred to him. _Alright, so I have the soul of an old god, so what happens when an old god becomes a Grey Warden…?_

"Hm…wonder if that means the Griffons will return…?"

"What?" Alistair snapped impatiently.

"Ah...just wondering…" Greagoir trod carefully. "Why?"

The Senior Warden curled a hand around his shoulder, grasping it hard. "Because if you don't," he said grimly. "Ser Myfanwy will execute you."

-oo-


	8. Nobody's Business

A/N: It's been a while and this is overdue, but thanks to all of you who've been following this story. It is both surprising and amazing and I am very grateful. Hope you can all stick around for a bit longer *wink*.

-oo-

**Chapter 8 – Nobody's Business  
**

The suspense was killing him, but not as much as the thought that _this _individual, more than anyone else might not survive this event. On the other hand, it was also why he just wanted to get on with it. With the two mabari-like Templars, Sers Bertram and Myfanwy falling over each other with righteous impatience outside, Alistair simply wanted to _know_ so they could just…move on, but Greagoir simply stood silently; wrinkling his nose at the contents of the tankard. It had been…how long? He'd lost track but at the same time, Alistair could not blame the mage. The very secret ingredients that went in to make the Joining juice in the first place originated from the foulest of creatures. Removing them from the darkspawn did not make them any less bearable…or palatable.

Alistair cleared his throat. With the passing of time, his anxiety increased. He stared pointedly at the tankard; Greagoir ignored him, continuing to eyeball the reviled object in his hand. Using his rank as Senior Warden Alistair had managed to exclude the others from standing witness to Greagoir's Joining ceremony, but he was concerned that if they took too long, the Wardens outside might get curious…accidentally stumble into the tent…or just walk in to ask what the Fade was taking so long; even question his authority. It was traditional after all, to have more than one member of the Order at a Joining.

He could hear the Templars pacing from one end of the clearing to the other outside the tent like hungry lions. He'd already made it quite clear how welcome the two of _them_ were at such a time. _Which is not at all. _Under normal circumstances he'd be quite happy to have any number of people here (excepting the Templars of course). In _this_ instance, he could not risk having too many witnesses about in what might turn out to be a most unusual Joining. Greagoir might react badly or turn into something strange or…_Really, when I woke up this morning, I thought I was going to have just another ordinary day of darkspawn killing and paperwork… _

As Greagoir continued to simply gaze wordlessly at the tankard it occurred to Alistair…did the old god soul within Greagoir _know _that he was about to drink Archdemon's blood? Caused him to hesitate? How much of the old god had manifested itself in the young mage? Would it get angry for instance? Turn into a dragon and lay everything to waste? _Holy Maker, what if this is the same as cannibalism?_

_Andraste's smoking spittoon…what if Flemeth or…Maker forbid that _W. I. T. C. H _turns up?_ The latter questions in Alistair head warred for terror then fled his consciousness completely, possibly hiding behind some pink wobbly bit with their warm blankies and a comforting teddy bear. He wished he could join them. Then without warning, Greagoir lifted the tankard and swallowed the contents in one swift movement. Alistair sprang forward…freezing mid-lunge like one of those tacky statues of cherubs throwing flowers or arrows (or whatever it was they threw at people), waiting for the inevitable rollback of Greagoir's eyes…the purple mottling of the young man's skin…the choking…and the screaming and then…

…_the dying…_

A minute went past. Then a few minutes more.

Another five minutes passed before the Senior Warden noticed that Greagoir had not in fact died, but was still very much alive and knocking his chest plate insistently with the tankard, his face and eyes screwed up as though he'd just had to suck all the lemons from an entire orchard.

"If this is a jest," Greagoir spluttered. "Then it's in such bad taste that I can't even begin to find the right kind of words...and definitely not to describe what my mouth feels like right now." His complaint was punctuated by the metallic clang of the tankard butting against plate metal. "No pun intended…I mean, _Maker_, you could have warned me it was going to taste like the inside of the Infirmary's garderobe after a night of bad Antivan stew, but n…wait…" Greagoir paused thoughtfully. "I take it back. I think I could use my tongue to clean every single chamber pot and gazunder in the Circle Tower and my mouth would not feel as disgusting as it does right now."

The Senior Warden blinked. "Y-you…" Alistair stuttered in a combination of disbelief and relief. "You're a-alive…Still. Even."

Tired of trying to return the now dented tankard, Greagoir held it up with a waggle. "Am I supposed to keep this?" he asked. "A souvenir from a most auspicious moment and all of that?"

"You're…Maker, you're alive!" Finishing his lean forward, Alistair threw his arms about a very bewildered Greagoir, giggling in relief. "You're alive!" Alistair repeated joyfully. "I'm so relieved! I don't know what I would have done if you'd…if you'd…"

Standing stiffly within his godfather's embrace, Greagoir noticed a pair of bright blue eyes peeking through the tent flap at him. From between the curtains of canvas, Denny raised her eyebrows. She gave him a _look, _then reversed a trifle _too _carefully; making sure the tent opening did not gape so as to reveal the goings on inside. To give the two men inside _privacy…_

_Oh…wonderful…_Greagoir thought sourly. _Now she thinks the Senior Warden and I are…oh why do I bother?_

With a sigh Greagoir patted his godfather on the back comfortingly, then grasped the older man's shoulders and gave him a firm push backwards. Wiping his eyes on the back of his gauntlet, Alistair sniffled. "I'll not lie to you," he said in a hushed voice. "I worried about you. Not all who undergo the Joining…survive."

Greagoir's mouth twisted downwards. "I'm not surprised," he said sourly. "This stuff is disgusting. You could use this as rat poison. Maybe with a bit of mint or cinnamon this might taste…no. No, I won't fill you with false hope. _Acid _would not make this taste any better. Which reminds me; do you have any on hand? I'd like to rinse my mouth out with it. Failing that, a mouth and gullet transplant would be champion."

Still chuckling, Alistair shook his head and finally retrieved the tankard. No fancy carved goblet had been used for _this _Joining. It had been whatever the Senior Warden could find in the Warden's camp. While Archdemon blood was always kept on hand wherever he went, the official Joining cup generally got left on its fluffy velvet cushion at the Jader headquarters. Of course he could have tried borrowing the _nicer _goblet from the Ferelden Wardens in Soldiers Peak, but they were a bit possessive of theirs and that Warden Sigrun would have made him pay a non-refundable deposit and signed a contract in his _blood _before being allowed to take it away.

"Do I even want to ask what was in that?" Greagoir enquired.

"Darkspawn blood," Alistair told him in a quiet voice, because no doubt those Templars were listening in. "And a drop of…um…" he lowered his voice further. "Archdemon B. L. O. O. D."

Greagoir's lips moved; shaping the five letters the Senior Warden had spelled out. Hs eyebrows snapped together. "Wait," he blinked. "That…You gave me…Well technically it's not _my, _but…You know what?" he said. "I think I am going to be ill after all."

"Try being unconscious instead," Alistair suggested, tossing a cautious look over his shoulder. "Most initiates are after a Joining. It's _traditional _and right now I don't want to draw more attention to you than you already…what?" Alistair turned, in response to Greagoir's pointing finger. "You…what?"

"Well uh, Denny might have peeked in just now when you were…hugging me."

The Senior Warden frowned. "Damn. The jig is up. Or…maybe…"

Greagoir shrugged. "Well I suppose it's no loss seeing as she already thinks Connor is my…significant other."

"Your…what-er?" The Senior Warden gave the younger man a long look. "We're talking about what now?"

Sinking his head into a hand, Greagoir sighed. "Never mind." Lifting his head and squaring his shoulders, he added. "Well now what?" he asked. "What else do I have to do to become a Grey Warden? Learn a special handshake…eat darkspawn stew while whipping myself with ogre intestines…? Run naked through Denerim while shouting _Warden! Warden! Warden! Oi! Oi! Oi!_?" He threw up his hands. "After drinking what tasted like the unholy contents of the Archdemon's bowels, I think I can pretty much take anything." Gesturing to himself, he added; "Come on. Do you worst."

Alistair spread his hands wide. "That's it," he told Greagoir simply.

"What? That's 'it'?" Greagoir shook his head in disbelief. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Uh-huh. That's pretty much it, yes," Alistair confirmed. "I say the words, you drink the blood, you choke on it…and like I say, most pass out." Tossing the tankard onto his cot, Alistair folded his arms and; unhooking one hand he used it to stroke his beard thoughtfully, amber gaze scrutinising the younger man very, very carefully. "You didn't…" Pinning the younger man with a sharp gaze, he continued; "No really. No visions? No dizziness…funny turns? Any…" he cleared his throat. "_Strange _voices appearing suddenly in your head? No grunting, hollering darkspawny noise by any chance?"

The Senior Warden sounded so hopeful for any indication of suffering that Greagoir felt moved to say: "I might be getting a bit of a headache…? Maker knows what this is going to look like coming back out…or is that a touchy subject?"

Alistair ignored the question. Right now, there were more important things to say. The problem however lay in where exactly to start. With a frown, he pointed to the bed. "Lie down," he ordered.

"What?" Greagoir scowled. "But you just…"

"Just do it," Alistair said, using his Senior Warden voice again. "Denny may have seen you being…_held up _by me. If you lie down and look…" He sighed at Greagoir's stubbornly-set chin and continuing vertical state. "The alternative is that I knock you out myself," Alistair warned him. "If you _look _ill, we might have a better chance the others will believe you went through an ordinary initiation and won't question anything that happened here."

"Except Denny…"

"_Even _Warden Denny," Alistair stated confidently.

Greagoir clamped his mouth shut against any further retorts. He supposed arguing about it wasn't going to help any and so did as he was told, carefully shifting the empty tankard to the ground beside him. Knitting his fingers together, he settled his hands across his stomach, staring up at the underside of the tent.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Look…pale or something." Alistair sighed. "No. That won't do. That looks more annoyed or…constipated."

"Must be something I drank that disagreed with me," Greagoir snorted sourly.

Alistair waggled a finger at him. "That's the spirit!" Continuing to waggle his finger, the Senior Warden began backing towards the tent flaps. _Be right back…_he mouthed before stepping through the opening. Greagoir could hear the clapping of hands and his godfather telling someone outside to 'shove off'…possibly the Templars, or the other Wardens or…Settling his head back he clucked his tongue, the lingering aftertaste of the Joining potion still turning his stomach. _I could really go for one of Kester's humbugs about now…_A moment later, the Senior Warden walked back in.

Hunkering down beside the bed, Senior Warden Alistair gave him one last, close look.

"Alright," he began. "Seeing as we didn't get a chance to do this while the Templar Twins were attempting to turn you Tranquil…"

Greagoir bolted upright. "They were going to turn me Tranquil?" he asked, wide-eyed.

Alistair waved a dismissive hand. "Dead, Tranquil. It's all the same-"

"Is not! The Tranquil get a uniform."

At a stern look from his godfather, Greagoir lay back down.

"Alright…" Alistair started again. "Before I was so rudely interrupted…I need to hear what the Fade you're doing in the Korcari Wilds…no, wait. Start from the beginning." Lowering himself properly to the ground, the Senior Warden clasped his hands about his knees. "The sooner I get your story straight, the sooner I can sort this out in my head and the sooner…" He took a deep breath. "The sooner I can fill you in on what's going on around here."

Greagoir turned his head, frowning. "Why?' he asked. "What do you mean?"

Extending a hand, the Senior Warden thumped the side of the cot. "Just tell me," he ordered. "Unless you want to wager that what I'm about to tell _you_ is going to be far more unpleasant than what I _think _you're going to tell _me_."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Greagoir scowled.

In turn, the Senior Warden's expression turned even more grim. "Oh, but I _am_."

-oo-

Aidan Cousland narrowed his eyes at the dwarven guardsman. Arms crossed, he peered down his nose, regarding the dwarf in a way that suggested he could stand here all evening if need be. The guard, clearly used to encounters such as these, returned the human's gaze emotionlessly, not impressed in the least by the man's claim that he was a relation of the Ferelden King. He'd arrived with no retinue, just a single, grey-haired soldier. Nor had there been advance notice that one of the royal _princes _was expected for a visit. The human could wait out here indefinitely for all he cared until he could prove that he was who he said he was.

Orzammar was_ closed._

"Hungry, my lord?"

A large hunk of bread swam into Cousland's view. It was attached to a stubbornly serene Captain Tremayne. "I recommend the cheese. Redcliffe blue; a particularly nice vintage I'm told."

Cousland gave his Guard Captain a _look. _"You expect me to _eat_ at a time like this?"

"I've also procured this rather fine ale…" Ser Ryan held up a stamped waterskin. "It's somewhat heavy on the grain, but the highland barley does give it a nice, rounded finish."

"Ah…a connoisseur eh?" the dwarven guardsman nodded approvingly. "You been hanging round those mages, soldier?"

To Cousland's boggling disbelief, Ser Ryan grinned and nodded. "I am familiar with the First Enchanter's brews," he informed the guardsman in the same, friendly tone of voice. "He makes – arguably – the finest red lichen ale in Ferelden outside Orzammar."

"That he does…that he does," the guardsman nodded again, bestowing an appreciative grin on the taller human.

Ser Ryan gestured a bread roll towards the high – and firmly fastened - Orzammar gates. "I take it the Festival has ended. We were hoping to be here in time for the Winners' Tastings…" At this Ser Ryan threw a regretful yet wistful look at the closed doors. "Alas, we appear to have arrived too late." Returning his attention to the guardsman he added, "But perhaps if we're lucky, we can catch them at Kinloch Hold." When Ser Ryan turned towards Cousland, he found a tug on his tunic.

"Eh…well the mages are still here…" the guardsman told them both confidentially. Looking first right, then left and satisfied he was unlikely to be overheard, he leaned closer. "I like you." He thumbed at Cousland with a twist of his mouth. "Him, I'm not so sure about, but you're alright."

Ser Ryan bowed, saluting the guardsman with a flourish of the bread roll he still held. "I am honoured."

"Tell you what, Soldier," the guardsman winked while Cousland glared at his Captain. "I can't let you in, but I can send a message to the mages for you."

"Most likely they'll be staying at the Orzammar Circle," Ser Ryan smiled.

"Ah, that they would be," the guardsman nodded. "That they would be. I'll have a runner send a note up to the Enchanter."

"Oh, would you?" Ser Ryan touched his chest with the bread roll in another, grateful salute. "I would be obliged to you!"

A moment later, the guardsman turned, walking swiftly to the gates of Orzammar. As he busied himself with some kind of device by the gates, Ser Ryan lifted the bread roll and nibbled at it idly. Without turning, he commented: "Your mouth is agape, my lord. Your tongue will freeze in this inclement weather if exposed too long."

A clicking noise could be heard as Aidan Cousland closed his mouth with a snap. "Since when did you become so wily, eh?"

"When I accepted your offer of employment, my lord…" Ser Ryan replied without a moment's hesitation.

"Cheeky bastard," Cousland snorted. Lifting his eyes to the sky, he frowned. "We're going to have to seek some kind of accommodation soon." Looking behind him, he noted the thick crowd. Even with Orzammar closed, for whatever reason, there were still plenty of folk about, though the stall owners and merchants had begun to pack up their wares. Across the busy square and cross roads, lamps and braziers were being lit and a steady stream of chilly-cheeked patrons had begun to queue at the entrance to the inn located at the footsteps of the gates. Cousland knew of one other possible place where they could attempt to purchase a bed for the night, but if the closer accommodation was any indication, they were unlikely to find anything available.

"Or find a place to pitch a tent," he added. "Either way, we can't stay out here."

"Ale my lord?"

Cousland batted away the waterskin. "You're very single-minded," he complained at his Captain. "Do you know that?"

Ser Ryan nodded calmly. "Yes, thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment, you block-headed…grey-haired…mage-thief," Cousland pouted. "And hand over that ale while you're at it. Honestly, why offer a man a drink if you don't hand the damned thing over?"

Grinning, Ser Ryan returned the skin of ale to his Lord. He too had already visited the idea of finding accommodation in Orzammar Village and had regretfully come to the same conclusion his employer had. He was in the process of considering possible camping sites in the area when a creak and a boom sounded near the gates and a red-haired squeal came sprinting across the stone, hurling herself at him. Stumbling backward, Ser Ryan was at first puzzled by the attack, until he realised who the bundle of red hair and brocaded leather apron was.

Laughing, Ser Ryan first returned the enthusiastic hug, then gently placed the small person on the steps.

"Enchanter Dagna," he smiled warmly. "It is good to see you. You are looking well."

"And you're looking…" Dagna cocked her head to the side. "Ancestors, you look even more like quartz than granite every time I see you!" Bouncing on her heels, she stuck her tongue out at Aidan Cousland, though she tempered the gesture with an eye-crinkling smile. Turning back to Ser Ryan, she thumped on his breastplate. "So, tell me. How is Alyce? Is she here with you? She's been promising to visit for _months, _but every time I ask, she's always too damned busy, busy, busy. I'm beginning to think it's personal. We've just built a new _lyrium _plant. I know she was interested in the new amalgam extraction we've developed for…Your eyes are glazing over, Captain!" she laughed suddenly. "Have the two of you been travelling long?"

"Yes!" Cousland interjected; to be ignored by the diminutive dwarf.

"Well, I can't take you inside," Dagna admitted, thumbing over her shoulder, "but…Well come with me. At least the two of you can stay somewhere warm for the night…or for however long you intend to be here," she suggested in a rush.

"Why _is _Orzammar closed by the way?" Cousland enquired, shortening his footsteps to keep up with the dwarf.

Dagna grimaced. Tossing a look towards the guardsman, she offered a friendly wave as the trio walked past, gesturing not towards the Orzammar entrance, but at a long set of carved stone steps leading away from the entrance of the great dwarven city. It wasn't until the three had crossed a few landings that Dagna spoke again, casting a cautionary look downwards. The base of the stairs wound in a circular-ish pattern upwards, their way lit by oil torches perched in the trees. They were by now high up enough to be well out of both view and listening range of the Orzammar guards.

"Sorry for the silence," Dagna began quietly. "But Orzammar being closed off is sort of a touchy subject at the moment."

"Why?" Cousland asked. "I've not heard anything…"

Dagna's eyebrows lifted. "That's because we're trying to keep this quiet. It's a bit…" she sighed. "Well to be honest, it's a bit like during the Blight."

"Blight?" Ser Ryan asked, "How so?"

"It's…King Bhelen…" Dagna sighed softly. "He's sort of…well he's sort of…_dead,_" she added in a near whisper. "And Orzammar is once again in the middle of another civil war…Seeing as now we have even fewer actual candidates for the throne than after King Endrin returned to the stone."

"Well that's…" Cousland pursed his lips, choosing his words carefully. "…Inconvenient."

Dagna made a noise of disgust. "You're telling me. Not that the Deshyrs or the Assembly have any actual say in the running of the Orzammar Circle. As long as whoever ends up in charge continues to leave us alone well…Independence is a nice thing, but it's also transitory when it comes to dwarves. Our heads might be made out of stone, and change comes at the speed of continental drift but when there's power to be had, we grab it faster than a Deepstalker in heat."

"An interesting simile," Cousland commented wryly.

Dagna threw her hands into the air. "Ah, _dwarves…_" she spat. "Can't live with 'em. Can't kill 'em."

Ser Ryan positioned himself beside Dagna, looking down into her serious, freckled face. "And the First Enchanter?" he asked. "Is he still here?"

Dagna paused. "Yes," she replied. "Why?"

The Cousland Guard Captain and Lord Aidan exchanged a look of mutual _here goes…_"I need to find out where he sent Alyce," he said, trying to keep the worry from his voice and failing. Dagna's eyebrows drew downwards.

"Is…there a problem?" she asked cautiously.

"I hope to the Maker not," Ser Ryan replied. "But I do need to speak to her urgently."

Dagna grinned. She wiggled her eyebrows. "Aw…old fogey love…that's so adorable." Turning serious once more, she patted Ser Ryan on the arm, much as she would an elderly person, with the promise of some hearty gruel and custard later. "Is she alright then? Can't imagine anyone who tangles with the Senior Enchanter would escape with their faculties intact or all their limbs still attached. Well, not in the places where you'd _expect _a limb to be attached anyhoo." Peering up at Ser Ryan, her brow furrowed. The grey-haired Captain wore a mask of affable calm most times, except of course, when it came to his irascible mage-wife. Then a person could _see _more grey hairs sprout from the man's head. In this instance he appeared to be foregoing the grey and heading straight to the white.

"As I said before, I didn't get to see her before she left but I know Alyce can look after herself…" Dagna told him quietly. "Torrin was sure she'd be alright. You don't need to worry."

"Well it's not…" Ser Ryan began, when the Dagna's words sunk in. "Why should I not be worried about Alyce?" he demanded.

Looking guilty, Dagna began to back away. "Be…cause…she hasn't been sent into the Deep Roads?" she said, not quite able to stop flinching in time.

"She _what?_" It was Aidan Cousland who spoke. Grasping Dagna's shoulders quite firmly, he leant down with a glare. "There are _darkspawn _in the Deep Roads!" he rasped. "Is the First Enchanter insane?"

Reaching up, Dagna knocked the young lord's hands away and stepped firmly out of reach. Pursing her lips, she returned Cousland's glare. "Firstly, the First Enchanter would _not _place such an important member of his Circle in harm's way," she told both men sternly. "_Secondly…_" She exhaled a heavy breath. "Secondly…" she lowered her voice. "The darkspawn appear to be…leaving the Deep Roads."

"_What!_" Cousland barked again.

With an exasperated sigh, Dagna waved her hand. "Just follow me you two. It's none of your business quite frankly, but if you must know, it should come from the First Enchanter, not me." Having said her piece, Dagna turned and continued up the stone staircase. "Well…" she threw an unreadable look over her shoulder at Ser Ryan. "_Mostly _not your business…"

-oo-


	9. When a Mage Smiles

A/N: Hey, it's been a while since I touched base with you wonderful readers so...just wanted to say it's a pleasure having you along, and...apologies if this chapter is a tad, hm, oblique (and expository). Special thanks to those of you who've taken the time to review. You are all most kind to do so.

-oo-

**Chapter 9 – When a Mage Smiles**

With an arm tucked behind his head, Greagoir pondered the wall of information looming before him; trying to make some kind of connection between the more prominent pieces and failing. Despite reading everything he could have possibly read about darkspawn, the Blight and Grey Wardens in the Circle Tower libraries, he still didn't know enough about any of the three to be able to make any sense out of all of this. He supposed that was what his uncle – the Senior Warden – was for; though Senior Warden Alistair appeared to be just as flummoxed by the current situation as he.

"And you say even the Grey Wardens are at odds with each other?" Greagoir asked, keeping his voice pitched to just above a whisper.

Alistair sighed. "For the last…five years or so, I suppose," he nodded. "There's been a growing movement, I guess you could call it; Wardens unhappy about not being part of the fight against the Blight here in Ferelden rebelling against Weisshaupt. That little…mess in Amaranthine a while back with some kind of _intelligent _darkspawn called the Architect have the Clevers in Weisshaupt hopping mad with us here in Ferelden, while _Orlais _believes the Fereldan Grey Wardens sacrificed theirs for some kind of revenge; political or otherwise…"

"And your Chief Warden…" Greagoir frowned. _What was he/she called? The First? _"He disagrees with your alleged interference with politics in Ferelden_ and_ Orzammar? And here I was under the impression the head of the Grey Wardens was pretty much the _de facto _ruler in the Anderfels_._"

"Well," Alistair folded his arms. "That and I suspect the belief not nearly enough Archdemon blood got sent back to Warden Headquarters."

"A bit of an oversight on your part?" Greagoir asked, thinking _how much blood does a dead Archdemon have anyway?_

"Yes well," Alistair remarked dryly. "It apparently didn't matter that Neria and I had both been _unconscious _for some days after the Archdemon sort of…_exploded _into teeny tiny bits_._"

Greagoir snorted, trying to imagine the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden attempting to siphon dragon blood from the stones of the Fort Drakon ruins. "Actually…" his frown deepened. "I'm surprised Weisshaupt didn't send a contingent of _official _Grey Warden blood collectors or…something to make sure everything was salvaged that could be salvaged. I hear dragon scales are still at a premium."

"I suppose we could have just gathered what we could find and sent it off…" Alistair said, lips twitching. "Of course, considering that it takes _weeks _to get to Weisshaupt, those bits might have been a tad…ripe by the time they got there…"

"You're evil."

"No I am not," Alistair stated firmly. "Because we didn't actually end up sending rotting Archdemon flesh to the Anderfels."

Greagoir waited.

"Even though we wanted to," Alistair sniffed. "And I only said that because I knew you would be disappointed if I didn't."

"Uh huh."

"Anyway." The Senior Warden stood, dusting off his leather pants, armour clanking. "I suppose enough time has passed to make it seem as though you underwent a proper Joining." Turning to Greagoir he smiled. Officially. "Let's get you introduced to the others. The sooner you show those two Templars out there that you're a _real _Grey Warden, the sooner they'll go away."

"You hope."

As Greagoir collected himself, the Senior Warden watched him surreptitiously, which in Alistair's case was not particularly surreptitious at all, especially when his eyes kept darting away any time Greagoir happened to look over. Before the two men left the tent, Alistair paused.

"So…I suppose we'll get you kitted out," he said, frowning at the younger man's travel-stained tunic and trousers. "I think we might even have a spare mage staff somewhere to replace-"

"Not a staff," Greagoir said quickly. He pondered the Senior Warden's armour. He'd never worn heavy armour before. His Uncle Alistair…_And I should probably stop calling him 'uncle' now too, I suppose…_wore plate armour with ease, but the man had been wearing that sort of kit for years whereas he…

"You're a mage…I thought," Alistair said slowly, thinking if all mages didn't wear their unwieldy robes, they might not have to fight at a distance all the time. Greagoir's build would easily accommodate the lamellar armour most Warden mages favoured, but without that silly skirt thing underneath…"I suppose now would be as good a time as any for me to ask; what kind of magic do you do?"

"The rubbish kind," Greagoir grimaced. _But I _can _fight. A longsword…no, maybe something one-handed, like the knights' swords the Highever guardsmen carried would be wonderful…_"Actually, I'd prefer a sword."

The Senior Warden's eyes widened. "You?" he asked. "A sword? I didn't know mages-"

"My fa…" Hastily catching himself, Greagoir continued. "Captain Tremayne and Prince Aidan taught me," he said quickly, wondering whether he should have mentioned the younger Cousland prince. It was name dropping, but there was little he could do now he had said it and besides, he _was _talking to the former King of Ferelden..."I'm probably a bit rusty," he admitted truthfully, "but I can use a shield as well."

"Really?" Alistair blinked…_no magic, _he thought?_ At all? _"Flaming swords, rock armour…exploding darkspawn Can you do any of that?" he asked.

"Disappointed?" Greagoir asked, watching the Senior Warden carefully.

"No, no, no, just…surprised, I suppose."

"To be honest…" Greagoir grimaced. "I can do the magic. If I have to. It's just that well, magic sort of makes me feel…uncomfortable." _Not uncomfortable exactly…But when everyone else around you does it so much better; a piddling spark compared to a thunderstorm…why bother? _A sword…a sword was solid, comforting. It didn't need recharging, never ran out of mana. A person could get tired sure, but not as fast as casting spells depleted mana. And there was something satisfying about getting into the thick of things; it was more personal, cutting off an enemy's head rather than sending a rock fist to smash it off at a distance…not that he'd cut off hundreds of heads exactly. In fact, he had yet to cut _anyone's _head off but it was the _principle _of the thing.

"In that case…" Alistair said thoughtfully, "we'll find you some armour, sword and a shield…" He smiled. "We'll take you through your paces, see what you can do," he went on to suggest. "I can't imagine mages would get much practice wielding a sword in the Tower so we'll need to see how rusty you really…" The smile abruptly disappeared from the Senior Warden's face. Muttering _Maker…_he dashed outside with a single shout: "Darkspawn!"

-oo-

Greagoir had seen darkspawn before; humanlike and roughly human or dwarf-sized, but these ones were different. They appeared with an ear-splitting shriek in clouds of a foul fume. Towering over him they resembled insects, not people. A claw raked across his shoulder when he ducked; instinct kicking in a half second too late. The creature's piercing scream reverberated on the inside of his skull, disorienting him for more precious seconds. Then the ground exploded as more of the same appeared, sending soggy tufts in all directions before the twisted creature in front of him disintegrated in a column of flame. Something hard and cold was thrust into his hands and he was pushed forward: "Fight!" he heard the Senior Warden command, even as the veteran Grey Warden swung his own sword in a rapid arc, slicing into the creature at shoulder height.

Weighing the sword briefly in his hand, Greagoir hopped awkwardly aside as a dwarf-sized Genlock charged towards him, a battle-axe raised high. As the Genlock passed, Greagoir spun; foot slipping on the marshy ground. Tipping backwards, he attempted to regain his balance wheeling his arms, the sword slashing the air randomly. The blade struck the Genlock's spine clumsily, checking the creature mid-charge. Greagoir didn't wait to see what it did next, bringing his sword around again, this time impaling it through the chest.

Blood sprayed across his face and mouth. Greagoir swallowed more of the vile darkspawn blood…as if the liquid he'd drunk during the Joining had been a mere aperitif. Wiping his arm across his face, he turned again, seeking out his next target.

"Watch yourself!" a familiar voice bellowed as a rush of heated air overbalanced him again, hitting an unseen Hurlock behind. It too turned it into a pile of smouldering ashes. This time, Greagoir did fall over, landing on the bloody ground in a tangled heap of embarrassment. From the ground he caught sight of Enchanter Connor, arms raised; a flame ball hovering about the mage's hands…snuffed abruptly. The Enchanter stiffened, eyes rolling back into his head and he collapsed backwards, his unresisting body hitting the ground just as another darkspawn ejected itself through the soggy soil.

Scrambling to his feet, Greagoir sprung forward, his clumsiness forgotten for once as – using his forward momentum - he plunged his sword into the Genlock. Wrists and shoulder muscles protesting, he dragged the blade upwards with as much force as he could. Bone crunched, blood spurted…He brought his foot up, prising the body of the darkspawn from his blade. Shaking his blade free of gore, he swung again, separating the Genlock's head from its body. He remained standing over Connor's unconscious form, checking for more enemies, but there were none.

The darkspawn were vanquished. For now.

The Senior Warden jogged towards him. With just a cursory thump on the younger man's shoulder, Alistair continued his advance on the diminutive Templar Ser Myfanwy, standing a short distance away, sword still raised. With little ceremony, and even less warning, Alistair batted the sword aside angrily.

"Never do that again!" he bellowed at her. Grabbing the sword from her surprised hand he hurled it to the ground. A jangling behind Greagoir indicated the timely arrival of her colleague Ser Bertram but the other Templar did not make it far; intercepted by a mountainous Grey Warden who held the Templar fast with a warning shake of his hoary head.

To give her credit, Myfanwy stood her ground, tossing her head defiantly. "That man is an abomination!" she protested.

Curling his fingers over the neck rim of Ser Myfanwy's breast plate, the Senior Warden lifted the young Templar off the ground. Bringing her to eye level; her dangling feet would have been comical if not for the anger burning in the seething Senior Warden's countenance.

"I don't give a damn what you think," Alistair spat. "Chantry business is Chantry business, but interfere in _Grey Warden _business again and I will not be responsible for my actions!"

Steeling herself, Myfanway tossed her head again, though her scarlet cheeks indicated some of the fight had gone out of her.

"_Especially,_" the Senior Warden growled, "if you - or anyone else for that matter - ever puts _any_ of my people in danger again." Dropping the Templar to the ground, Alistair waited a few seconds for Myfanwy to collect herself before continuing speaking. "Are we clear on that?"

It seemed for a moment Myfanwy would argue, but she appeared to think better of it, taking a half step backwards to put a more respectable distance between herself and the bristling Grey Warden. Greagoir saw his childhood playmate clench her fists at her sides and he shook his head at her stubbornness…_Idiot. When did Myf become so…stupid?_

Raising her head slightly, Myfanwy murmured; "Yes, Warden…"

"Actually," Alistair corrected her, "It's 'Senior Warden' and just a quick reminder;" he turned, including Ser Bertram behind him, "Connor and Greagoir are now officially Grey Wardens and as such are granted immunity from Chantry law. Neither of you may like that particular fact, but that's just too bad isn't it?" Returning his attention to the smaller Templar, he narrowed his eyes. "Next time," he added, "if there _is _a next time, you remove one of my Wardens from a fight with darkspawn, don't expect any of us to help you out…should the darkspawn turn on _you_...Being tainted is a _nasty_ business as you've probably seen," he continued ruthlessly. "And the darkspawn are not known for being…_considerate_ to women in particular."

Waving a hand in dismissal, he told them both: "Now get the Fade out of my sight."

Now set free, Ser Bertram twisted out of the large Grey Warden's grip, to join his colleague's side. Greagoir thought he saw something; some kind of signal pass between the two Templars, but he dismissed it. If the two of them were planning something it would be two Templars versus a campful of Grey Wardens. He didn't think Myf was _that_ foolish. Though he was itching to tell her she needed to sort out her anger management issues, Greagoir instead knelt beside Connor's rigid body. He'd been about to reach out to check the mage's breathing when Connor's eyes snapped open unexpectedly, startling Greagoir into an unwarriorlike cry of surprise.

Connor sat up; bending at a right angle to the waist in the peculiar way that indicated he might not be quite…human at this moment in time. He smiled a demon's smile at Greagoir.

"Ah…He lives!" the demon cackled, though whether it meant Connor or itself was not clarified.

Denny sidled alongside Greagoir, clearing her throat. "Actually…" she said, "Uh…Senior Warden…? Considering those at the recent battle and the…um, numbers of 'spawn we've been encountering in the area, should these good people be sent…_out there_ on their own?"

For a moment, Greagoir thought Alistair might censure the younger Grey Warden for contradicting him. Instead, Alistair's eyes twinkled as he placed a single, thoughtful finger on his chin. "Hm…a good point Warden Denny." Then the light went out of his eyes completely, masking any emotion he might feel behind them. "Except that I am unable to spare any Wardens to accompany them to…wherever they intend to go to next. You know how it is: so few men, so _many_ darkspawn to kill…"

"True, Ser" Denny shrugged with a sorrowful sigh, though her wicked smile was anything but sad or regretful.

"They have big swords," Alistair reminded her. "And thick armour besides."

"I suppose they could stay with us for a bit."

It took a full minute before Greagoir realised it had been he who'd spoken. When he also realised the suggestion had caused him to now be the focus of some rather annoyed attention, he patted the top of Connor's head and stood. He wasn't sorry for the Templars, being at the receiving end of one of Myfanwy's Holy Smites recently, but the thought of sending _anyone _out to be at the mercy of darkspawn seemed so unlike everything the Grey Wardens stood for…not that he was an expert by any means, it was just…The roll of Senior Warden Alistair's eyes told him that _no one _had any intention of sending the two Chantry watchdogs to do what he thought they were going to do…causing his cheeks to begin to burn. _Ah…spoke too soon._

_Again._

The Senior Warden recovered quickly, clucking his tongue at the notion. "Well this is a turn up for the books…" he drawled, wide-eyes. "A _mage…_? Showing compassion for a couple of Templars? Unheard of!" Clapping his hands together in a businesslike fashion, he strode forward, addressing the other Wardens. "Right you lot! You know the drill; collect these up for the traditional Grey Warden barbecue and marshmallow toasting." He turned briefly to Ser Myfanwy. "You can have a pink one if you behave." Waggling his finger, he added, "But _only _if you behave."

As he passed, he placed his hand on Greagoir's shoulder one last time. "You weren't exaggerating when you said you were rusty, were you?"

When the Senior Warden left, Connor popped up, blinking like a waking cat at Greagoir in a way that promised mischief; and a great deal of angst for Greagoir later, no doubt. It was then that Greagoir realised that only one of Connor's eyes actually glowed with that inner Fade light. The other was quite…normal.

"En…chanter…?" Greagoir began, not too sure what to make of this.

The Connor demon responded by grinning through cracked lips. Dark circles still ringed the older mage's eyes and while the diseased patchwork of blackened taint had mostly faded, a tracery of black persisted on the skin visible above Connor's tattered collar, like a ruff or the sepals of a flower.

"Ah…" Connor drawled. "You're probably wondering who's…here at this present time, hm?"

Greagoir grimaced. The answer had already occurred to him, though at first he was quite sure it had been his brain merely playing games with the rest of him. "You're uh…"

"Precisely, how eloquently put!" Connor's grin widened, showing one canine slightly longer than the other. Or was that his imagination? "The…Joining appears to have had an interesting effect," the demon informed him. "Oh for the love of…!" Connor's more human voice surfaced, sounding thoroughly annoyed. "Just tell him and get on…look I'll just say that the…

"_Me…_" the demon's voice reappeared – and Greagoir had to _stop _and think very hard because two voices were coming out of Connor's mouth and it was _most _disconcerting…or at least, more disconcerting than before when the two kept swapping in and out. It was just that now, it was more rapid-fire, as though the two were fighting for…equal space.

"Maker's bubble bum…" Greagoir breathed. "You're…you're stuck aren't you?"

"Yes he is!"

"Unfortunately yes."

"Am I going to keep hearing things in double from now on?" Greagoir asked.

"Yes!"

"A sweetie for the sweetie!"

"Oh dear."

"The only good thing about this…arrangement…" Connor added nastily. "Is that the demon is stuck in this particular body. It can't transfer to someone else, even if it wanted to."

"Pshaw! And not for lack of trying!"

"Hah! If I die, so do you, fiend!"

"Pshaw! And it won't be lack of trying, mortal!"

Slowly, so as not to look as though he were doing so, Greagoir backed away cautiously. There were…things to do…surely? People to…um, see? Oh yes, and darkspawn carcasses to burn and so forth. Leaving Connor Abomination arguing with himself..._it_self...Greagoir widened the distance between him and…_them, _while carefully and pointedly maintaining a wide arc around the Templars. Myf – in particular – looked as though anyone who came within spitting distance of her would spontaneously combust in Holy Fire.

All in all, Greagoir felt, this wasn't _too _unfamiliar a start to his career as a Grey Warden, considering how his brief stint as a vagabond apostate had gone. Mostly. At least, he reminded himself, he was being consistent.

Which was pretty much more than he could say for Connor right now.

-oo-

"They're not going away, are they?" Hirral, Commander of the Legion of the Dead commented in a growling voice. "Bit like a bad smell…lingers long after the culprit's escaped."

"Eh, I don't care for the look of that squinty human," Arn, another League soldier commented, swinging his long-handled axe in the air; the flashing blade reflecting light from the surrounding lava. It was too warm down here and Alyce was looking forward to leaving this place as soon as was possible. Wherever this place happened to be. She missed the cold and the miserable, constant drizzle of the outside world and the Ferelden climate in particular. There wasn't even enough quality, musty damp down here. The kind that got into everything; turning them mouldy and limp within minutes of drying. She even missed the smell of wet dog and she didn't even _have _a dog.

It appeared they were still lost, though considering that the Grey Wardens and Seeker said they knew where they were going but appeared to be lost with them, technically were they actually – in fact – lost at all? The Grey Warden was still quite confident that the direction she was heading in was the right one…which was, coincidentally, the same direction as the Seeker. Which – also coincidentally - happened to be where Alyce and the Legion were heading.

_The bunch of copycats…_

Was it pride, Alyce wondered? Either party were too embarrassed to admit they'd gone down the wrong tunnel and turned too early or too late at that last nest of ravenous, poison-spitting Deepstalkers? Feeling contrary, Alyce had purposely wandered randomly through a series of circuitous Deep Roads tunnels testing the Wardens and Seeker. Quite apart from the fact that it gave Commander Hirral more grey hairs, the continuing presence of Warden Anike and the Seeker was really…really, _really _beginning to give her the impression that they were following her.

But that was…nonsensical.

To think they were following her would mean they thought she had somewhere special to go…which she didn't because she was just wandering about random tunnels in the Deep Roads until…she found what she most certainly _wasn't _looking for because it _wasn't_ a secret that only the First Enchanter knew. And…perhaps a couple of select, senior Grey Wardens. And Florible Phineas Flambeaux I'll Just Stay Here in The Best Comfy Chair in the Mages' Library While You Go Out and Get Dirty Shall I Aldebrant; a person who was so discreet (especially when it came to important Circle research) that in order to get any information at all out of the man, all you had to do was go down to the local pub and ask anyone. Unconscious or otherwise.

Shoulders slumping, Alyce considered her options. She could just ask why the Grey Wardens and Seeker were following her, but she suspected any more information beyond 'Oh you know…just admiring the scenery' was forthcoming. The other option was to find the biggest, nastiest, smelliest nest of darkspawn she could and simply leave the tagalongs to their fate. Except that the vile creatures were increasingly sparse, the longer their party remained underground. The other option…well the other option was not an option at all: tell _them _why she was here and enlist their assistance.

That way lay madness.

And a very stern look from First Enchanter Torrin; an outcome to be avoided at all costs.

"Probably trying to hide the fact they're after the same thing as you," Hirral sighed knowledgeably. Scratching the side of his nose, he added, "You Surfacers really believe in all this…witchy stuff, no offence meant ma'am."

"None taken," Alyce replied, her own nose sinking between her knees. "And…while I can't say for sure when it comes to the Grey Wardens, it's not like Chantry folk to go wandering about the Deep Roads risking life and limb against darkspawn just because they like to look at rocks."

Hirral snorted and threw a dirty look at Giles Moreau…the Seeker had casually propped himself against a stone wall. Just watching. Casually. "For a while I thought it might be because of the Orzammar Circle, you know…?"

At the mention of _that _place, Alyce's eyes grew even more flinty. "Reason enough to knock him off the ledge of a lava pit then," she muttered darkly. She hadn't had a chance to speak to Dagna personally. Time had been too short, but Torrin had made known to her the most pertinent parts; meaning the Divine in Val Royeaux had given formal notice she did not approve of the work and relationship the Orzammar Circle had set up in recent years with other Circles regarding _lyrium. _Clever little Dagna had been working very hard and the discoveries she had made were _important_. Especially if it meant safer lyrium _for all._

An Exalted March on Orzammar…? _Clearly…_Alyce thought, her mind going down even darker veins…_What Orlais needs is another Blight. They sound bored over there…_

It occurred to her that she should be careful what she wished for. Another Blight so soon after the last one…Ferelden was still recovering. Another Blight might destroy her country altogether, but some of the signs were there: fewer darkspawn in the Deep Roads; more sightings of them above ground…except the darkspawn did not seem as organised. Yet. They were being busy, but for what purpose, she could only make a few, wobbly stabs at. _Searching for an old god on the surface to taint…_? _Or someone with the _soul_ of an old god…?_

"Don't be stupid."

"Eh? You talking to me?" Hirral looked at her sharply and Alyce realised she'd spoken out loud. Placing a hand on the Commander's shoulder, she stood.

"No Hirral," she reassured him. "Just…thinking all that time the Revered Mother spent trying to teach me Andrastrian "history" was a bit of a waste of hot air and good lavatory paper."

The Commander lifted his eyebrows then patted the stone he sat on. "And Surfacers wonder why we Dwarves put our faith in solid stone. All your gods in their sky cities, fightin' each other…And your prophet lady doin' the dirty with the biggest god of 'em all – no innuendo intended there - we already get all of that in the Assembly right here and when someone disagrees with another, it don't mean pestilence and lightning. It just means a knife in the heart, no hard feelings, but you were a git; movin' right along next one please." Scratching the other side of his commodious nose he added; "know what I mean?"

Alyce nodded. "I do, Commander. One day I might defect."

"Eh…" Hirral grinned, jewelled teeth flashing, "I'd like that, but I don't think we have a house tall enough in Orzammar to house you. Not that I don't appreciate the view."

"Why?" Alyce asked. "You have a thing for knees, Commander?"

Chuckling, Commander Hirral pushed himself to his feet. The other Legion of the Dead soldiers followed suit, laughing along with their Commander. A few of them pointedly leered at Alyce's leather-clad knees. After this much time in the Deep Roads and the amount of falling over she generally did, the leather was starting to wear thin in places. If she wasn't careful, these dwarves might get a glimpse of her scabby knees and be overcome by their beauteous knobbliness.

"Let's just try and find this thing before that lot does," she suggested and the Commander nodded.

_Honestly…_she grunted unhappily to herself, _the sooner I find this so-called 'Flemeth's Grimoire', the better…_Though if Moreau got to it first - Alyce threw another sour look at the still-lounging Seeker – _I really am going to throw that man into a lava pit. I need answers…And if a swarmy Orlesian or a few curious Grey Wardens get in the way protecting my little boy, well then…I'll just have to show them _exactly_…_

_What. I. AM._

Fewer mages after all, in the Ferelden Circle of Magi or otherwise had had as much contact with Greagoir as she had. Torrin had made sure of that when she had begun showing the…signs. Removing herself from Greagoir's side had been the most difficult thing she had done in her life and she hadn't liked it. _Still _didn't like it. She'd been storing up her ire and her resentment; bottling it up; letting it fester; ferment…Switching her attention from Hirral to Giles Moreau, her sour look was replaced abruptly by a sweet smile. _Try me…Seeker. I'm sure you'll find it most educational._

-oo-


	10. Unwelcome

A/N: I keep forgetting! Thank you to Gaspode for the suggestion of 'Connormination'. I've stolen the phrase and now I'm going to use it forever, bwa ha ha ha ha ha! {lightning strikes across the sky etc etc}.

Also apologies this chapter has taken so long…

-oo-

**Chapter 10 – Unwelcome  
**

"Pst. Senior Enchanter."

Alyce grimaced, wiping the last of the brownish, stinking slime from her heel. She had no idea what Deepstalkers ate down here but whatever they did smelled foul. Her time in the Teyrnir of Highever as Mage in Residence to the Couslands had reacquainted her with the many rustic, rural odours she thought she'd left far behind in her childhood. Muddy cow pats, slippery piles of pig poo, showers of bird droppings…never _mind _what the various visiting duck, geese and who knew what else visited and left on the green areas around the garden ponds for unsuspecting, early morning walkers. There was no denying it. The air in the country smelled…pooey. It was fresh and untainted by smoke, unwashed crowds and the greasy, oily fume of industry, but the freshness of country air only allowed the pooeyness to…shine through.

As it were.

She'd gotten used to it, in her own way. It was better than the acrid smell of magic, the cookery scent of apprentices setting each other on fire and the cheerful but ever-present aroma of disapproving, looming Templars.

Still.

The stuff that came out of Deepstalker bottoms? That was something altogether.

"Pst."

Sure she had gotten rid of almost all of the poo, she put her foot down only for it to land in another little heap of Deepstalker droppings. Well_…_the word 'dropping' was perhaps not quite accurate.

"Pst."

Perhaps 'splatting' or 'heaping' or even – at a pinch – 'goo-ing' might be a better description. Also 'invisible and sneaky' because she was pretty darned sure that that spot of moss had been completely faeces-free a few moments ago.

"_Pst!"_

Alyce sighed and turned her attention to the League of the Dead soldier crouching behind the fungi-dotted wall. "Corporal Sorli…" she began, narrowing her eyes. "Either you have something to say to me or you've sprung an unexpected leak."

A pair of beetle black eyes twinkled at her. "Eh heh…that's a good one, Senior Enchanter." He wiggled his armour clad fingers at her, indicating she too join him behind the wall. Alyce hesitated. It was a low wall and if he expected her to attempt to hide behind it, she would have to suggest he have his eyes tested urgently. Seeing her give the stone a pointed look, Sorli grinned, then jerked his chin sideways. "Commander has some important things to discuss," he told her _sotto voce_. "Away from _certain _people who like to listen in to conversations that don't concern 'em."

"Oh. Well, alright then." Side-stepping another pile of Deepstalker globbings, Alyce followed Sorli to the other side of the stone wall. He didn't stop there, but continued on past a worn obelisk. She'd had a look at it previously, having spotted some writing carved into the stone, but it had been chipped in old dwarvish; a language she was completely unfamiliar with. She did take a rubbing of as much of it as she could, however. When she returned to Orzammar, she'd take it to Dagna. It was high time she visited that woman and if anyone could read ancient anything, it would be Dagna.

They found Commander Hirral at work sharpening the long curved blade of his favourite battle-axe; a weapon that was honed to such a state of sharpness Alyce could imagine an enemy need only _look _at it and be slain without any actual contact with it whatsoever.

As they approached – Alyce carefully not allowing her eyes to linger too long on the axe blade just in case – the Legion of the Dead Commander nodded towards them. His own eyes remained fixed on the watchful Seeker across the cobbled road. Hirral had taken a professional dislike to the Chantry representative and was as keen as the edge of his battle-axe to show Giles Moreau how unwelcome the man remained as long as the Seeker stayed anywhere near their party.

Alyce crouched by the Legion Commander. "You wanted to speak to me?"

Hirral nodded again. "Aye Senior Enchanter," he told her, not bothering to keep his voice low. "We appear to have made progress trying to figure out what that old map of yours means."

Alyce blinked. Her eyes widened in surprise. "You have?"

"Aye Senior Enchanter," Hirral replied, still staring across the clearing; the sound of his whetstone skimming the edge of the axe blade punctuating his sentences. "As I thought, the river and those of rockfalls we came across a couple of days ago have opened up a few new passages. Seems to explain how we've been turned about so many times. I'm not so battle-addled that my stone sense has gone wanderin'. Yet."

Crossing her legs neatly beneath her, Alyce made sure her back was placed quite firmly towards Moreau. _Wait…_"River?" she asked.

"Lava," Sorli informed her cheerfully.

"Oh…_that _river…" Alyce nodded in obedient acceptance.

"Way I have it figured," Hirral lowered his voice only a half-notch, noting as he did so, the Seeker inclining his pomaded head towards them. "If we cross over _here, _then take the southern road for a league or two we should find the turning we missed. Soon as we're back on track, it won't be long until we get to where we should be going."

Balancing her chin between forefinger and thumb, Alyce pursed her lips. "That would add two more days of travel and…" Giving Hirral a keen look from between her lashes, she added; "take us dangerously near Darkspawn-held territory."

Hirral shrugged. "Eh, what's a few Darkspawn between friends, hm?"

"A short, miserable death by tainted dismemberment?" Alyce suggested.

Hirral chuckled. Reaching up, he patted the tall mage on the top of her head. "Eh, you're a good lass Senior Enchanter, but your sense of humour needs a bit of fine-tuning."

"Must be the thought of death by darkspawn making me that way," Alyce sighed, wondering whether Hirral's intent to take this particular route was to discourage Giles Moreau from following them or because he wanted the Seeker to die in a battle outnumbered by Darkspawn. Either option was likely down here. While she pondered Hirral's information, she noticed a flapping sound; belonging to a piece of scorched vellum being waved in front of her nose. It was a map, viewed in double-vision thanks to her crossed eyes. Blinking, Alyce put a bit of distance between herself and the parchment before reluctantly taking the offered document. Hirral – and the other League of the Dead no doubt – had made so many scribbles and notations on the bit of cured nug skin that it took Alyce a few minutes to pick out the direction Hirral had mentioned.

When she did, she held the parchment flat in the palm of her hand, peering upwards at the roof of stone above them.

"Wonder where we are in relation to surface Ferelden?" she wondered out loud.

Cocking an eyebrow at her, Hirral snorted. "Antiva," he muttered then tucking his whetstone and cleaning cloths into a pouch, hoisted his battle axe over a shoulder and stood. "Best get some rest Senior Enchanter," he suggested. "The more ground we can cover tomorrow, the better."

"Fine, fine…" Alyce stood too, rolling up the parchment. She'd lost track of time underground. The dwarves had a longer 'day' cycle…and she wished she'd kept a log of how many of those days had passed so she could calculate how many of her own had elapsed. She supposed she could ask Hirral, but as the Commander had already moved on; his fellow League of the Dead following like armoured ducklings, she could only make a note of it for later. To be honest she wasn't even tired, only anxious to find this place Phineas had documented. Not that she expected to find Neria there…which was the reason why she had agreed to this whole thing in the first place.

Maybe…not even a trace…?

The whole story about Neria and the fascinating but extremely talented marsh-witch and an ancient _Elvenhan_ device known as the _Eluvian_ seemed like a badly-written fairy tale to her but Alyce knew well that fairy tales – especially Ferelden ones – tended to start in something real.

Neria had been missing for almost three years now and Alyce knew in agreeing to the search she was clutching at straws but it was better than not making any attempt to know at all.

That – in Aunt Mildred's words – would have been sheer laziness on her part.

As for the Grey Warden Anike's (timely) appearance? Well, having an early warning darkspawn detector in their party had been a good thing so far. Anike and her fellow Grey Wardens kept to themselves, looked after themselves and there wasn't a creepy stare between them. The Seeker on the other hand…

Alyce was quite aware that she was not the sort that 'took' to people easily. Nor had she ever mastered the other art of 'getting on' with people or reading them. For all she knew Giles Moreau was a wonderful human being who spent all his free time performing charitable work for the community; rescuing orphans out of trees, helping whales to cross the street…who knew? Perhaps in different circumstances the two of them might be the best of friends; spend their free evenings discussing the latest Tethras novel, braiding each others' hair…except that the sight of the man made her skin want to crawl inside her body cavity just so it wouldn't have any chance of making contact with him.

What Alyce _did_ know however was Templars. Living with them made her hyper-aware of them. Moreau was _trained. _The thought that he wasn't just a mere Templar, but some kind of Super Templar…?

_Not just creepy, but dangerous too._

And the fact that the Wardens and the League of Dead agreed with her instinct worried Alyce even more about Moreau's presence. With that in mind, she could certainly understand Hirral's glee when the next morning, when their little group packed up camp, they found not only Giles Moreau missing, but the map as well. Nor was it a surprise that the League Commander and his men were eager to move along as quickly as possible.

The sooner they were away from this place, the more time they would have before the Seeker discovered that the 'ancient' map of the Deep Roads Hirral had been referring to was actually only a couple of days old and completely fake.

-oo-

The Templars were still with them. Greagoir was in two minds whether that was a good or a bad thing. On the one hand it gave him an idea how awkward the traditional Wintersend family get together would be. On the other hand…_Why the Fade are they still here? Don't they have important things to do?_ He was beginning to wonder whether Templars in fact, had nothing much to do all day but perfect their glare, stand around pretending to be statues and growl at the odd apprentice. Life as a Templar must be incredibly boring. It was no wonder his old man gave the job up.

"I see the two Chantry blowflies are still with us," snorted a scornful voice beside him.

_Aaaaaand, speaking of two minds…_

"Oh the large one is decorative…"

Greagoir rolled his eyes.

"You are_ not_ to make any attempt whatsoever to seduce _either _of those two!"

"Well, I wasn't going to, but now that you've put it into my mind…"

"_Whose _mind?"

"Ours of course, my reluctant but amusing vessel."

Connor's hand gripped Greagoir's shoulder tightly. Between gritted teeth, he pleaded: "There must be some way to separate me from this…this…_thing!_"

"I am hurt! So very, very hurt…"

"Shut up, fiend!"

"You know perfectly well," Greagoir addressed Connor - the _both of them -_ while inching sideways surreptitiously, "the only way to do so is to kill you and if I do the Senior Warden'll probably be humorous at me." Folding his arms, his chin jutted stubbornly. "Let's not go there. For the love of all that is good and wonderful and for all the small, cute furry children everywhere I refuse to provoke Alistair into making any jokes." _Argh, why did Uncle Alistair ever think he was funny? _It wasn't as if anyone encouraged him to try.

The Connormination half pouted at him. Greagoir felt sorry for the Enchanter, really he did – hope to the Maker nothing like this ever happened to him blah, blah, blah – but when Connor tried to look grim while the Desire Demon twisted the rest of his face into an eyelid-batting moue the resulting combination of expression was so comical it was incredibly difficult to keep his own face straight.

"You're enjoying this aren't you?" Connor growled.

"After the piles of Bronto poo you've put me through?" Greagoir snorted. "Mage-knapping me, nearly drowning me, getting us lost in the wilds of hostile Ferelden; attacked by Darkspawn and by the way involving me in the _murder _of two men in cold blood…two men who'd done nothing wrong but go about their daily duties _and then_ attempted murder of an honest businessman…? No, why in Thedas would you think that?"

Shoulders slumping, Connor presented a most un-Enchanter-like posture; even if the Demon appeared to have gone wandering elsewhere for the moment and human Connor was indeed the current, dominant resident. Rubbing tired, scarred knuckles into an eye, Connor frowned. "If I had asked you, would you have helped me?" he asked.

"Nope. Not a chance," Greagoir replied stoutly.

"To remove a demon?" Connor asked, his scowl redirected sideways. "You would not have chosen to assist a fellow Mage overcome possession?" he demanded.

An eyebrow jumped on Greagoir's forehead. "I know I look mostly dumb," he stated flatly, "But after lying to me through your teeth, you surely don't expect me to believe _now_ that I'm going to feel sorry for you?"

"Being possessed was not my decision!" Connor snapped.

"Well I was _taught _otherwise," Greagoir retorted. "Mages have _power. _Demons desire that power and it's up to _us _to resist them."

Fists clenching by his sides, Connor stared angrily ahead of him. "I was a child."

"Yeah and I've been wondering how you've managed to keep your little…guest a secret for so long." Greagoir narrowed his eyes at his fellow log-companion. "Especially considering how keen Templars are to root out all the bad lemons in the Circle."

"It was clever," Connor growled.

"You should have been cleverer…er. Smarter at the least." Greagoir threw a mocking look at his now fellow-Warden. "Huh, your credibility's gone down a few notches. Are you _sure_ you're not just mad that people might actually think you're the stupid one for a change?"

"Shut up."

_Uh huh. Just as I thought. _With a sigh of superiority, Greagoir made a show of polishing his nails on his leather tabard, inspecting them for possible damage. They were a mess, but he was a male and didn't much bother about those sorts of things. All that preening and making sure one wore the correct colour of pantaloons this season so as to make the most of one's shapely calves…_hogwash. _What he was doing was a piss-take. "Sometimes," he said, getting back on topic. "I amaze myself with how insightful I can be."

"Enjoy it while you can, _boy,_" Connor said coldly, the inbred nobleman taking a stand where the arrogant know-it-all Mage wouldn't. "It won't last long."

"I intend to, thanks," Greagoir grinned, enjoying himself – and Connor's discomfiture - immensely. "Anyway…" Stretching his legs out before him, he leant back, looking down his nose at the clump of miserable Templars across the camp clearing. "Why _are _they still here? I would have thought with the Maker's Shield to protect them, they would have braved the Korcari Wilds and darkspawn to return to wherever they came from."

"Why are you asking me?"

"I'm not," Greagoir cocked his head to the side, taking a moment to poke his tongue out at Myfanwy when she bestowed upon him a look that would have curdled an entire Dairy's worth of milk. "I was asking the more helpful half of you."

"It got bored and went away," Connor harrumphed testily.

"Well if they think they're going to mooch off the Grey Wardens indefinitely," Greagoir continued, "they've got another-"

"_Darkspawn!_"

A metallic thunder preceded a whoosh of jangling armour over the Mages' log. The walking mountain of a Grey Warden, Gunnar landed with a surprisingly light thud on the other side - joined shortly by the Senior Warden – mere minutes before the ground erupted in a shower of moss, rock and squelchy sand. Scrambling to his own feet, Greagoir experienced a brief moment of _dumb _until he located his swords; two single-handed long blades enchanted to feel light to the wielder. Meanwhile, Connor had cast a shield of armour about himself in less time than it took to blink an eye; the older mage's eyes glinting red as the Demon took over.

Despatching a Genlock, the Senior Warden paused to nudge Greagoir towards his fellow mage. "No offence lad!" Alistair told him, "but stay with Ser Personality Crisis! Keep the darkspawn off him and the both of you stay at range!"

"What?" Greagoir pushed back. "But I can fight!"

"Keep him safe, that's an order!" Alistair pushed right back, heading off into the thick of battle.

Biting back another protest, Greagoir nevertheless tugged Connor to higher ground, until he was knocked flat by another darkspawn emerging from between his feet. A moment later a conjured ball of rock pelted into the side of the darkspawn's head. Regaining his dignity, Greagoir stood and swung the blade of his sword around at neck height, on the premise that cutting off a darkspawn's head first thing generally saved a person having to go back for another go; a gout of stinking blood spraying his cheek. Greagoir ducked but had little time for an impromptu groom. Another Genlock barrelled into him, knocking the air out of his lungs. Inhaling sharply, he did the only thing he could think of; he head-butted the creature, rolling out from under the tainted beast when it hooted in surprise. His foot shot out, catching the darkspawn in what he hoped was the same vulnerable area in a man that size, surprising himself by managing to rise more quickly than his opponent. Two slashes and all Greagoir had to do was kick the now-dead creature from the end of his sword.

"Ogre!"

Connor stood a little way to the side on a slight rise, fireballs shooting out from the end of his wooden staff. It had been he who'd shouted the warning. The Ogre had appeared from the marshes, heading straight for the Templars…

The Senior Warden was the first to see it. Changing direction, he began sprinting towards the two Chantry soldiers until a barricade of Shrieks exploded around him, preventing him from reaching his target. Connor conjured an Expulsion Glyph around the Senior Warden; the Shrieks could no longer reach the Grey Warden, but neither could Alistair leave his circle of protection, having to now concentrate on clearing this new enemy.

Greagoir cast his gaze about the battlefield. Gunnar was nowhere to be seen. Denny and Diele stood back to back fending off another wave of Shrieks and Hurlocks. The larger Templar, Ser Bertram was performing a pretty good job of fighting the Ogre, until the beast lowered its head and charged. The Templar went flying but the Ogre did not pursue Ser Bertram. It turned its attention instead to the diminutive armoured object attempting to whack its knees.

"Oh for the love of…! We have to get over there!" Greagoir shouted, lunging sideways to make another darkspawn kabob.

"You're mad!" Connor responded. "You'll never get there in time! That little Templar's pulp!"

_Andraste's smoking coals…The Senior Enchanter's going to rip me a new one if I let anything happen to Myf…_Making a rapid calculation in his head, he tapped Connor's shoulder. "Another Expulsion Glyph!"

"What?" Connor huffed irritably. "Where?"

Greagoir pointed with the end of his sword. "There!" he yelled. "Six paces from the Ogre!"

Connor scowled. "You're out of your mind! There's nothing the-"

"_Now_!"

Greagoir was already running across the marsh. He thought he heard an understanding, demonic chuckle behind him, but it might have been his imagination. Vaulting over the log he and Connor had been sitting on moments before the attack, he detected the tell-tale glow of Connor's Glyph splaying across the ground seconds before he hit the Glyph, angling his body and bringing the blades of both swords up and forward as he was propelled through the air towards the Ogre. He was quite aware that if he missed, this would probably be the single most embarrassing moment of his relatively short life.

He didn't.

He landed hard; momentum and his weight used to good effect to drive both swords between the Ogre's shoulder blades. The enchanted iron ripped through the armoured scales and toughened hide, slicing through the Ogre's spine. The beast roared in agony and fell; clawing the ground in a vain attempt to escape. Greagoir had merely to step up to the Ogre's side, plunging his sword into its heart. It shuddered, convulsed, clawed hands gouging clumps of ground some seconds before it stilled, dead.

Swivelling, Greagoir sought out his next target but as he hoped, the Ogre was the last enemy to have arrived on the field. Several unhappy screeches behind him indicated the darkspawn surrounding Diele and Denny were being finished off.

"Well, that was…" The Senior Warden clasped a blood-spattered hand to Greagoir's shoulder. "Unconventional, to say the least." Looking about, trying to locate his surviving Wardens, he added; "I'd say it was foolish too…if it hadn't worked so spectacularly well."

"Right…right…" Greagoir nodded, his knees feeling a bit like jelly. _I killed an Ogre…Whoa. I. Just. Killed. A. Bloody. Great. Ogre…_

"Wardens!" Alistair bellowed, startling the shaking mage-warrior beside him, "Report!"

The other Wardens located a mostly conscious Gunnar; his shaggy head of hair and beard soaked with his own blood. At least the rest of him was intact. Ser Bertram they found had not been so fortunate. The Templar had landed face down in a pool of putrid water, his neck at an even more unfortunate angle. Even Connor cast the deceased a pitying look, unable to discern whether the Templar had died from a broken neck or had simply been unable to rise because of his injury and had drowned in that tiny puddle.

"What do we do with the left over?" Denny asked, adding because despite the still-defiant stance of the Ser Myfanwy, the girl looked on the verge of tears at the demise of her colleague. "Nothing personal…of course."

Lifting her chin Myfanwy stared coldly back at the Wardens around her. "I don't need your help…" she began when a bruised and scraped fist landed on the top of her braided head.

"Stop being such a bloody idiot." In case she Holy Smote him again, Greagoir pushed at the Templar's shoulder in what he hoped was a brotherly way. "We could turn you loose and _make _you go back to wherever you came, but quite frankly both the Senior Enchanter and the Captain would have my guts for garters if I let you do that." Attempting to bat his hand away only made Greagoir persist. "I mean, do you really have to be such a bitch?" he asked, because he was puzzled by how much of a stiff-necked, thin-lipped harridan his cousin had turned out. Maker, both her mother and older sister were the sweetest people in Ferelden. What went wrong with this one? "These people aren't _bad._ They've protected you and they're going to keep protecting you whether you want to or not. Unless you want to join-"

"Of course not!"

Clasping her hands tightly in front of her, Ser Myfanwy scowled darkly, her resentment at being beholden to the Order of the Grey quite obvious. "I want nothing more to do with you criminals!"

Greagoir sighed. He was quite sure he caught her muttering, _sheltering Apostates_ under her breath. Instead of slapping her as he really wanted to do, he rolled his eyes. "Psht. Is that the best you can do?" he enquired, "because you're not convincing anyone. The sooner you take that stick out of your bottom and accept the fact that _four _consecutive Kings endorsed the rights and _authority_ of the Order of the Grey in Ferelden, the better." Draping an arm over her twitching shoulder, Greagoir purposely leaned heavily on her, knowing full well that despite his weight Myf would rather die than give in to such a childishly administered gesture of dominance. "Or do you believe yourself better than King Bryce?" Waggling a finger in front of her face, he added: "Think carefully before you answer now! Treason is such a difficult thing to live down."

Lifting her chin, Myf attempted to push away. "The Chantry answer to no one!"

"Ding! Ding! Ding!" Greagoir exclaimed. "Wrong answer!" Waving a hand at the Senior Warden, he smiled beatifically. "Ser?"

"Not that I care," Alistair sniffed, "Because you know…more important things to tend to…" Turning briefly to Diele, he instructed: "Gather up the wounded, make sure their injuries are attended to." Copying Greagoir's waggling finger, he told the Templar grimly; "I'll not say this again little _miss…_You are here under my sufferance. And I'll not tolerate your Chantry arrogance and the assumption that you are here solely to save Thedas from the evil of mages run amuck. You've seen darkspawn. You've witnessed what they can do. One of them just killed your colleague – not an apostate – a _darkspawn. _There are far worse things in this world than a mage outside the Circle. And by the way…" Alistair turned next to Greagoir. "For the record, I'm done discussing this. Can we move on please? _Denny!_"

Snapping her heels together, the dwarven Warden saluted smartly. "Senior Warden!"

Dragging his eyes from Greagoir, Alistair half-turned towards the young dwarf. "I know you're surface-born, but I also happen to know that you're a bit of an expert on Dwarfanity."

"Uh…yes sir…?" Denny acknowledged slowly, storing the word the Senior Warden had used for later. Her Da would love that one.

"Where's the nearest entrance to the Deep Roads from here?"

Taken aback, it took Warden Denny a few minutes before she could supply an answer. "Why…sir?"

Wiping the blade of his longsword with a cloth, the Senior Warden resheathed it and shouldered his shield higher. "I think we've pretty much answered the question about the darkspawn presence here. I'd normally suggest a cross-country trek to the Peak but with so few Wardens right now to fight them, our best bet would be to go where there might be _fewer _darkspawn right now."

"I suppose," Denny began thoughtfully. "Here, actually. Or Ostagar, more accurately. Where the darkspawn first appeared during the Bl-"

"Yes, yes, I know the one," the Senior Warden interrupted impatiently. "I thought the dwarves closed off those tunnels."

"Never underestimate the curiosity of dwarves, Senior Warden," Denny sighed.

Alistair nodded. "Right. As soon as the injured are ready to travel, we leave."

"But what about Ser Bertram!" Myfanwy protested. "He needs a decent burial…The proper rites must be performed…"

Having already turned his back on her, the Senior Warden merely raised a dismissive hand. "Uh huh," he called over he shoulder. "Good luck with that."

Retaining his hand on Myfanwy's shoulder, Greagoir gave the little Templar a nudge. "You perform the Rites," he suggested quietly. "Connor can burn him."

"But!"

"Shsht!" Denny pressed a gloved finger to her lips. "Everything here has to be burned anyway," she reminded them all. "Darkspawn," she added. "We can't leave anything tainted behind, including your Templar friend, I'm afraid." Perching her fists on her hips, she gazed up at Greagoir. "Heard a terrible rumour you might be a mage," she grinned.

"Well I…"

Denny jerked her head back towards the corpse-littered battleground. "Because we could use the extra help healing."

_Right…Healing. Think I can do that,_ Greagoir grimaced, pausing to ruffle the top of Myf's head before following the dwarf Warden. When he felt it safe to talk again, he allowed his curiosity full rein. "So…why the Deep Roads?" he asked. "What's with the darkspawn that's gotten the Senior Warden all…grr-argh?"

Denny glanced over her shoulder at him, rolling her eyes. "Darkspawn leaving the Deep Roads in large numbers," she stated. "What do _you_ think it means?"

-oo-


End file.
